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"GRANDMOTHER  DEAR" 


TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS 


;Tt&t&°- 


"GRANDMOTHER    DEAR" 


TWO  LITTLE  WAIFS 


BY 

MRS.    MOLESWORTH 

AUTHOR  OF  "CARROTS,"  "CUCKOO  CLOCK,"  "TELL  ME  A  STORY' 


ILLUSTRATED   BY   WALTER    CRANE 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 

1898 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1893, 
By  MACMILLAN  AND  CO. 


New  uniform  edition  set  up  and  electrotyped  October,  iS 
Reprinted  August,  1898. 


NorfooatJ  IBrcss : 

J.  S.  Cushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith. 

Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS. 
"GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

Making  Friends 1 

CHAPTER  II. 

Lost  in  the  Louvre 15 

CHAPTER  IH. 
"  Where  is  Sylvia  ? " 26 

CHAPTER  IV. 

The  Six  Pinless  Brooches     ......      40 

CHAPTER  V. 
Molly's  Plan 55 

CHAPTER  VI. 

The  Apple-Tree  of  Stefanos 66 

rr>  v 

r- 


Vi  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

PAGE 

Grandmother's  Grandmother 84 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

Grandmother's  Story  —  continued         ....    104 

CHAPTER  IX. 
Ralph's  Confidence 121 

CHAPTER  X. 
"  That  Cad  Sawyer  ".......    136 

CHAPTER   XL 
"That  Cad  Sawyer"  — Part  II 159 

CHAPTER  XH. 
A  Christmas  Adventure        ......    175 

CHAPTER  Xin. 
A  Christmas  Adventure  —  Part  II.      ...        .    195 

CHAPTER    XIV. 
How  this  Book  came  to  be  written  ....    213 


CONTENTS. 

TWO    LITTLE   WAIFS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

Papa  has  sent  for  us 1 


CHAPTER  II. 
Poor  Mrs.  Lacy 14 

CHAPTER   III. 
A  Pretty  Kettle  of  Fish 27 

CHAPTER   IV. 
"What  is  to  be  Done?"       ......      42 

CHAPTER  V. 
In  the  Rue  Verte 59 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Among  the  Sofas  and  Chairs      .....       74 

vii 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

PAGE 

The  Kind-looking  Gentleman      .....      89 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
A  Fall  Downstairs 104 

CHAPTER  IX. 
From  Bad  to  Worse     .......     120 

CHAPTER    X. 

"  Avenue  Gerard,  No.  9 "    .        .        .        .        .        .     134 

CHAPTER   XI. 
Walter's  Tea-Party     .......     149 

CHAPTER  XTT. 
Papa  at  Last 163 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 
"  GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

"  I  hope  it  isn't  Haunted  "  .  .  .  .  Frontispiece 
Sylvia  lost  in  the  Louvre  .  .  .  To  face  page  27 
"  Whose  Drawer  is  this  ?"....  "  45 

Under  the  Apple-Tree "  80 

"Zwanzig  —  Twenty  Schelling,  that  Cup"        "  105 

In  the  Coppice "  131 

"  Good-bye,  again,  my  Boy,  and  God  bless  you  !  "  "  158 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 
TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

"Well,  Dears,"  she  said,  "and  what  are 

you  playing  at?" Frontispiece 

In  Another  Moment  the  Little  Party  was 

making  its  Way  through  the  Station  .  To  face  page  39 

She  placed  the  Whole  on  a  Little  Table 

which  she  drew  close  to  the  Bed     .  "  67 

"  Oh    don't,   don't    cross   that  Dreadful 

Street,"  Gladys  exclaimed  .        .  "91 

Anna  opened  the  Door  sharply,  as  she 
did  Everything,  and  in  so  doing  over- 
threw the  Small  Person  of  Roger    .  "        126 

"  Go  along  there,"  she  said,  "  and  then 
turn  to  the  left,  and  you  will  see 
the  Name  '  Avenue  Gerard,'  at  the 
Corner" "138 

Walter  was  having  a  Tea-Party  !    .         .  "         150 


"I  hope  it  isn't  Haunted."— p.  190. 

—  Frontispiece. 


u 


GRANDMOTHER  DEAR" 


®  2Soofc  for  23ogs  anti  ffitrls 


BY 


MES.  MOLESWORTH 

AUTHOR  OF  "  CARROTS,"  "  CUCKOO  CLOCK,"  "  TELL  ME  A  STORY  ' 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  WALTER    CRANE 

THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 
1898 


AH  rights  reserved 


First  Edition  printed  November,  1878.     Reprinted  December,  if 
September  and  December,  1882;   1886,  1887,  18S9,  1892;  August,  189 


TO 

OUR   "  GRANDMOTHER  DEAR 
A.  J.  S. 


Maison  du  Chanoine 
October  1878 


"  GRANDMOTHER  DEAR." 

CHAPTER   I. 

MAKING   FKIENDS. 

"  Good  onset  bodes  good  end." 

Spenser. 

"Well?"  said  Ralph. 

"Well?"  said  Sylvia. 

"Well?"  said  Molly. 

Then  they  all  three  stood  and  looked  at  each 
other.  Each  had  his  or  her  own  opinion  on  the  sub- 
ject which  was  uppermost  in  their  minds,  but  each 
was  equally  reluctant  to  express  it,  till  .that  of  the 
others  had  been  got  at.  So  each  of  the  three  said 
"Well?"  to  the  other  two,  and  stood  waiting,  as  if 
they  were  playing  the  old  game  of  "Who  speaks 
first?"  It  got  tiresome,  however,  after  a  bit,  and 
Molly,  whose  patience  was  the  most  quickly  ex- 
hausted, at  last  threw  caution  and  dignity  to  the 
winds. 

"  Well,"  she  began,  but  the  "  well "  this  time  had 
quite  a  different  tone  from  the  last ;  " well"  she  re- 
peated emphatically, "  I'm  the  youngest,  and  I  suppose 
you'll  say  I  shouldn't  give  my  opinion   first,   but  I 

l 


Z  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR. 

just  will,  for  all  that.  And  my  opinion  is,  that  she's 
just  as  nice  as  she  can  be." 

"  And  I  think  so  too,"  said  Sylvia.  "  Don't  you, 
Ralph?" 

"I?"  said  Ralph  loftily,  "you  forget,  /have  seen 
her  before." 

"  Yes,  but  not  to  remember"  said  Sylvia  and  Molly 
at  once.  "  You  might  just  as  well  never  have  seen 
her  before  as  far  as  that  goes.     But  isn't  she  nice?" 

"Ye-es,"  said  Ralph.  "I  don't  think  she's  bad 
for  a  grandmother." 

"  '  For  a  grandmother  ! '  "  cried  Molly  indignantly. 
"What  do  you  mean,  Ralph?  What  can  be  nicer 
than  a  nice  grandmother?" 

"But  suppose  she  wasn't  nice?  she  needn't  be, 
you  know.  There  are  grandmothers  and  grand- 
mothers," persisted  Ralph. 

"Of  course  I  know  that"  said  Molly.  "You 
don't  suppose  I  thought  our  grandmother  was  every- 
body's grandmother,  you  silly  boy.  What  I  say  is 
she's  just  like  a  real  grandmother — not  like  Nora 
Leslie's,  who  is  always  scolding  Nora's  mother  for 
spoiling  her  children,  and  wears  such  grand,  quite 
young  lady  dresses,  and  has  black  hair,"  with  an  accent 
of  profound  disgust,  "  not  nice,  beautiful,  soft,  silver 
hair,  like  our  grandmother's.  Now,  isn't  it  true, 
Sylvia,  isn't  our  grandmother  just  like  a  real  one?  " 

Sylvia  smiled.  "  Yes,  exactly,"  she  replied.  "She 
would  almost  do  for  a  fairy  godmother,  if  only  she 
had  a  stick  with  a  gold  knob." 

"  Only  perhaps  she'd  beat  us  with  it,"  said  Ralph. 


MAKING   FRIENDS.  3 

"  Oh  no,  not  beat  us,"  cried  Molly,  dancing  about. 
"  It  would  be  \70rse  than  that.  If  we  were  naughty 
she'd  point  it  at  us,  and  then  we'd  all  three  turn  into 
toads,  or  frogs,  or  white  mice.  Oh,  just  fancy!  I 
am  so  glad  she  hasn't  got  a  gold-headed  stick." 

"  Children,"  said  a  voice  at  the  door,  which  made 
them  all  jump,  though  it  was  such  a  kind,  cheery 
voice.  "  Aren't  you  ready  for  tea  ?  I'm  glad  to  see 
you  are  not  very  tired,  but  you  must  be  hungry. 
Remember  that  you've  travelled  a  good  way  to-day." 

"  Only  from  London,  grandmother  dear,"  said 
Molly ;  "  that  isn't  very  far." 

"  And  the  day  after  to-morrow  you  have  to  travel 
a  long  way  farther,"  continued  her  grandmother. 
"You  must  get  early  to  bed,  and  keep  yourselves 
fresh  for  all  that  is  before  you.  Aunty  says  she  is 
very  hungry,  so  you  little  people  must  be  so  too. 
Yes,  dears,  you  may  run  downstairs  first,  and  I'll 
come  quietly  after  you ;  I  am  not  so  young  as  I  have 
been,  you  know." 

Molly  looked  up  with  some  puzzle  in  her  eyes  at 
this. 

"  Not  so  young  as  you  have  been,  grandmother 
dear?  "  she  repeated. 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Ralph.  "  And  you're  not 
either,  Molly.  Once  you  were  a  baby  in  long  clothes, 
and,  barring  the  long  clothes,  I  don't  know  but 
what  —  " 

"Hush,  Ralph.  Don't  begin  teasing  her,"  said 
Sylvia  in  a  low  voice,  not  lost,  however,  upon  grand- 
mother. 


4  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

What  was  lost  upon  grandmother  ? 

"  And  what  were  you  all  so  busy  chattering  about 
when  I  interrupted  you  just  now  ? "  she  inquired, 
when  they  were  all  seated  round  the  tea-table,  and 
thanks  to  the  nice  cold  chicken  and  ham,  and  rolls 
and  butter  and  tea-cakes,  and  all  manner  of  good 
things,  the  children  fast  "  losing  their  appetites." 

Sylvia  blushed  and  looked  at  Ralph ;  Ralph  grew 
much  interested  in  the  grounds  at  the  bottom  of  his 
tea-cup ;  only  Molly,  Molly  the  irrepressible,  looked 
up  briskly. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  she  replied ;  "  at  least  nothing 
particular." 

"  Dear  me  !  how  odd  that  you  should  all  three 
have  been  talking  at  once  about  anything  so  unin- 
teresting as  nothing  particular,"  said  grandmother, 
in  a  tone  which  made  them  all  laugh. 

"  It  wasn't  exactly  about  nothing  particular,"  said 
Mollie  :  "  it  was  about  you,  grandmother  dear." 

"Molly!"  said  Sylvia  reproachfully,  but  Molly 
was  not  so  easily  to  be  snubbed. 

"We  were  wishing,"  she  continued,  "that  you  had 
a  gold-headed  stick,  and  then  you'd  be  quite  perfect.'''' 

It  was  grandmother's  and  aunty's  turn  to  laugh 
now. 

"  Only,"  Molly  went  on,  "  Ralph  said  perhaps 
you'd  beat  us  with  it,  and  I  said  no,  most  likely 
you'd  turn  us  into  frogs  or  mice,  you  know." 

" '  Frogs  or  mice,  I  know,'  but  indeed  I  don't 
know,"  said  grandmother ;  "  why  should  I  wish  to 
turn  my  boy  and  girl  children  into  frogs  and  mice  ?  " 


MAKING   FRIENDS.  5 

"  If  we  were  naughty,  I  meant,"  said  Molly.  "  Oh, 
Sylvia,  you  explain  —  I  always  say  things  the  wrong 
way." 

"  It  was  I  that  said  you  looked  like  a  fairy  god- 
mother," said  Sylvia,  blushing  furiously,  "  and  that 
put  it  into  Molly's  head  about  the  frogs  and  mice." 

"  But  the  only  fairy  godmother  I  remember  that 
did  these  wonderful  things  turned  mice  into  horses 
to  please  her  goddaughter.  Have  you  not  got  hold 
of  the  wrong  end  of  the  story,  Molly?  "  said  grand- 
mother. 

"  The  wrong  end  and  beginning  and  middle  too,  I 
should  say,"  observed  Ralph. 

"  Yes,  grandmother  dear,  I  always  do,"  said  Molly, 
complacently.  "  I  never  remember  stories  or  any- 
thing the  right  way,  my  head  is  so  funnily  made." 

"When  you  can't  find  your  gloves,  because  you 
didn't  put  them  away  carefully,  is  it  the  fault  of  the 
shape  of  .the  chest  of  drawers?"  inquired  grand- 
mother quietly. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,  —  at  least,  no,  I  mean,  of  course 
it  isn't,"  replied  Molly,  taking  heed  to  her  words 
half-way  through,  when  she  saw  that  they  were  all 
laughing  at  her. 

Grandmother  smiled,  but  said  no  more. 

"  What  a  wool-gathering  little  brain  it  is,"  she  said 
to  herself. 

When  she  smiled,  all  the  children  agreed  together 
afterwards,  she  looked  more  like  a  fairy  godmother 
than  ever.  She  was  really  a  very  pretty  old  lady. 
Never  very  tall,  with  age  she  had   grown  smaller, 


6  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

though  still  upright  as  a  dart ;  the  "  November  roses  " 
in  her  cheeks  were  of  their  kind  as  sweet  as  the  June 
ones  that  nestled  there  long  ago  —  ah  !  so  long  ago 
now ;  and  the  look  in  her  eyes  had  a  tenderness  and 
depth  which  can  only  come  from  a  life  of  unselfish- 
ness, of  joy  and  much  sorrow  too — a  life  whose 
lessons  have  been  well  and  dutifully  learnt,  and  of 
which  none  has  been  more  thoroughly  taken  home 
than  that  of  gentle  judgment  of,  and  much  patience 
with,  others. 

While  they  are  all  finishing  their  tea,  would  you, 
my  boy  and  girl  friends,  like  to  know  who  they  were 
—  these  three,  Ralph,  Sylvia,  and  Molly,  whom  I 
want  to  tell  you  about,  and  whom  I  hope  you  will 
love?  When  I  was  a  little  girl  I  liked  to  know 
exactly  about  the  children  in  my  books,  each  of 
whom  had  his  or  her  distinct  place  in  my  affections. 
I  liked  to  know  their  names,  their  ages,  all  about 
their  homes  and  their  relations  most  exactly,  and 
more  than  once  I  was  laughed  at  for  writing  out  a 
sort  of  genealogical  tree  of  some  of  my  little  fancy 
friends'  family  connections.  We  need  not  go  quite 
so  far  as  that,  but  I  will  explain  to  you  about  these 
new  little  friends  of  yours  enough  for  you  to  be  able 
to  find  out  the  rest  for  yourselves. 

They  had  never  seen  their  grandmother  before, 
never,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  girls'  case,  and  in  Ralph's 
"  not  to  remember  her."  Ralph  was  fourteen  now, 
Sylvia  thirteen,  and  Molly  about  a  year  and  a  half 
younger.  More  than  seven  years  ago  their  mother 
had  died,  and  since  then  they  had  been  living  with 


MAKING   FRIENDS.  7 

their  father,  whose  profession  obliged  him  often  to 
change  his  home,  in  various  different  places.  It  had 
been  impossible  for  their  grandmother,  much  as  she 
wished  it,  to  have  had  them  hitherto  with  her,  for, 
for  several  years  out  of  the  seven,  her  hands,  and 
those  of  aunty,  too,  her  only  other  daughter  besides 
their  mother,  had  been  more  than  filled  with  other 
cares.  Their  grandfather  had  been  ill  for  many 
years  before  his  death,  and  for  his  sake  grandmother 
and  aunty  had  left  the  English  home  they  loved  so 
much,  and  gone  to  live  in  the  south  of  France.  And 
after  his  death,  as  often  happens  with  people  no 
longer  young,  and  somewhat  wearied,  grandmother 
found  that  the  old  dream  of  returning  "home,"  and 
ending  her  days  with  her  children  and  old  friends 
round  her,  had  grown  to  be  but  a  dream,  and,  what 
was  more,  had  lost  its  charm.  She  had  grown  to 
love  her  new  home,  endeared  now  by  so  many  asso- 
ciations ;  she  had  got  used  to  the  ways  of  the  people, 
and  felt  as  if  English  ways  would  be  strange  to  her, 
and  as  aunty's  only  idea  of  happiness  was  to  find 
it  in  hers,  the  mother  and  daughter  had  decided  to 
make  their  home  where  for  nearly  fourteen  years  it 
had  been.  They  had  gone  to  England  this  autumn 
for  a  few  weeks,  finally  to  arrange  some  matters  that 
had  been  left  unsettled,  and  while  there  something 
happened  which  made  them  very  glad  that  they  had 
done  so.  Mr.  Heriott,  the  children's  father,  had 
received  an  appointment  in  India,  which  would  take 
him  there  for  two  or  three  years,  and  though  grand- 
mother and  aunty  were  sorry  to  think  of  his  going 


8  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

so  far  away,  they  were  —  oh,  I  can't  tell  you  how 
delighted !  when  he  agreed  to  their  proposal,  that 
the  children's  home  for  the  time  should  be  with 
them.  It  would  be  an  advantage  for  the  girls' 
French,  said  grandmother,  and  would  do  Ralph  no 
harm  for  a  year  or  two,  and  if  his  father's  absence 
lasted  longer,  it  could  easily  be  arranged  for  him  to 
be  sent  back  to  England  to  school,  still  spending  his 
holidays  at  Chalet.  So  all  was  settled ;  and  grand- 
mother, who  had  taken  a  little  house  at  Dover  for  a 
few  weeks,  stayed  there  quietly,  while  aunty  jour- 
neyed away  up  to  the  north  of  England  to  fetch 
the  children,  their  father  being  too  busy  with  prepa- 
rations for  his  own  departure  to  be  able  conveniently 
to  take  them  to  Dover  himself.  There  were  some 
tears  shed  at  parting  with  "papa,"  for  the  children 
loved  him  truly,  and  believed  in  his  love  for  them, 
quiet  and  undemonstrative  though  his  manner  was. 
There  were  some  tears,  too,  shed  at  parting  with 
"  nurse,"  who,  having  conscientiously  spoilt  them  all, 
was  now  getting  past  work,  and  was  to  retire  to  her 
married  daughter's  ;  there  were  a  good  many  bestowed 
on  the  rough  coat  of  Shag,  the  pony,  and  the  still 
rougher  of  Fusser,  the  Scotch  terrier;  but  after  all, 
children  are  children,  and  for  my  part  I  should  be 
very  sorry  for  them  to  be  anything  else,  and  the 
delights  of  the  change  and  the  bustle  of  the  journey 
soon  drowned  all  melancholy  thoughts. 

And  so  far  all  had  gone  charmingly.  Aunty  had 
proved  to  be  all  that  could  be  wished  of  aunty-kind, 
and  grandmother  promised  more  than  fairly. 


MAKING   FKIENDS.  9 

"  What  would  we  have  done  if  she  had  been  very 
tall  and  stout,  and  fierce-looking,  with  spectacles  and 
a  hooke}r  nose  ?  "  thought  Molly,  and  as  the  thought 
struck  her,  she  left  off  eating,  and  sat  with  wide 
open  eyes,  staring  at  her  grandmother. 

Though  grandmother  did  not  in  general  wear  spec- 
tacles—  only  when  reading  very  small  print,  or  busied 
with  some  peculiarly  fine  fancy  work — nothing  ever 
seemed  to  escape  her  notice. 

"  Molly,  my  dear,  what  are  you  staring  at  so  ?  Is 
my  cap  crooked?"  she  said.     Molly  started. 

"  Oh  no,  grandmother  dear,"  she  replied.  "  I  was 
only  thinking  —  "  she  stopped  short,  jumped  off  her 
seat,  and  in  another  moment  was  round  the  table 
with  a  rush,  which  would  have  been  sadly  trying  to 
most  grandmothers  and  aunties,  only  fortunately 
these  special  ones  were  not  like  most ! 

"What  is  the  matter,  dear?"  grandmother  was 
beginning  to  exclaim,  when  she  was  stopped  by 
feeling  two  arms  hugging  her  tightly,  and  a  rather 
bread-and-buttery  little  mouth  kissing  her  valorously. 

"Nothing's  the  matter,"  said  Molly,  when  she 
stopped  her  kisses,  "  it  only  just  came  into  my  head 
when  I  was  looking  at  you,  how  nice  you  were,  you 
dear  little  grandmother,  and  I  thought  I'd  like  to 
kiss  you.  I  don't  want  you  to  have  a  gold-headed 
stick,  but  I  do  want  one  thing,  and  then  you  would 
be  quite  perfect.  Oh,  grandmother  dear,"  she  went 
on,  clasping  her  hands  in  entreaty,  "  just  tell  me  this, 
do  you  ever  tell  stories  ?  " 

Grandmother  shook  her  head  solemnly.     "  I  hope 


10  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

not,  my  clear  child,"  she  said,  but  Molly  detected  the 
fun  through  the  solemnity.     She  gave  a  wriggle. 

"  Now  you're  laughing  at  me,"  she  said.  "  You 
know  I  don't  mean  that  kind.  I  mean  do  you  ever 
tell  real  stories  —  not  real,  I  don't  mean,  for  very 
often  the  nicest  aren't  real,  about  fairies,  you  know 
—  but  you  know  the  sort  of  stories  I  mean.  You 
would  look  so  beautiful  telling  stories,  wouldn't  she 
now,  Sylvia?" 

"And  the  stories  would  be  beautiful  if  I  told 
them  — eh,  Molly?" 

"Yes,  I  am  sure  they  would  be.  Will  you  think 
of  some  ?  " 

"  We'll  see,"  said  grandmother.  "  Anyway  there's 
no  time  for  stories  at  present.  You  have  ever  so  much 
to  think  of  with  all  the  travelling  that  is  before  you. 
Wait  till  we  get  to  Chalet,  and  then  we'll  see." 

"  I  like  your  '  we'll  see,' "  said  Molly.  "  Some 
people's  '  we'll  see  '  just  means,  '  I  can't  be  troubled,' 
or  '  don't  bother.'  But  I  think  your  '  we'll  see ' 
sounds  nice,  grandmother  dear." 

"I  am  glad  you  think  so,  granddaughter  dear; 
and  now,  what  about  going  to  bed  ?  It  is  only  seven, 
but  if  you  are  tired  ?  " 

"  But  we  are  not  a  bit  tired,"  said  Molly. 

"  We  never  go  to  bed  till  half-past  eight,  and 
Ralph  at  nine,"  said  Sylvia. 

The  word  "  bed  "  had  started  a  new  flow  of  ideas 
in  Molly's  brain. 

"  Grandmother,"  she  said,  growing  all  at  once  very 
grave,  "  that  reminds  me  of  one  thing  I  wanted  to 


MAKING   FRIENDS.  11 

ask  you;  do  the  tops  of  the  beds  ever  come  down 
now  in  Paris  ?  " 

" '  Do  the  tops  of  the  beds  in  Paris  ever  come 
down  ? '  "  repeated  grandmother.  "  My  dear  child, 
what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  story  she  heard,"  began  Sylvia,  in  ex- 
planation. 

"  About  somebody  being  suffocated  in  Paris  by 
the  top  of  the  bed  coming  down,"  continued  Ralph. 

"  It  was  robbers  that  wanted  to  steal  his  money," 
added  Molly. 

Grandmother  began  to  look  less  mystified.  "  Oh: 
that  old  story  !  "  she  said.  "  But  how  did  you  hear 
it?  I  remember  it  when  I  was  a  little  girl;  it  really 
happened  to  a  friend  of  my  grandfather's,  and  after- 
wards I  came  across  it  in  a  little  book  about  dogs. 
'  Fidelity  of  dogs '  was  the  name  of  it,  I  think.  The 
dog  saved  the  traveller's  life  by  dragging  him  out 
of  the  bed." 

"  Yes,"  said  aunty,  "  I  remember  that  book  too. 
It  was  among  your  old  child's  books,  mother.  A 
queer  little  musty  brown  volume,  and  I  remember 
how  the  story  frightened  me." 

"  There  now  !  "  said  Molly  triumphantly.  "  You 
see  it  frightened  aunty  too.  So  I'm  not  such  a  baby 
after  all." 

"  Yes,  you  are,"  said  Ralph.  "  People  might  be 
frightened  without  making  such  a  fuss.  Molly  de- 
clared she  would  rather  not  go  to  Paris  at  all.  That's 
what  I  call  being  babyish  —  it  isn't  the  feeling- 
frightened   that's   babyish  —  for   people    might    feel 


12  "GRANDMOTHER  DEAR." 

frightened  and  still  be  brave,  mightn't  they,  grand- 
mother?" 

"  Certainly,  my  boy.  That  is  what  moral  courage 
means." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Molly,  as  if  a  new  idea  had  dawned 
upon  her.  "  I  see.  Then  it  doesn't  matter  if  I  am 
frightened  if  I  don't  tell  any  one." 

"  Not  exactly  that,"  said  grandmother.  "  I  would 
like  you  all  to  be  strong  and  sensible,  and  to  have 
good  nerves,  which  it  would  take  a  good  deal  to 
startle,  as  well  as  to  have  what  certainly  is  best  of 
all,  plenty  of  moral  courage." 

"  And  if  Molly  is  frightened,  she  certainly  couldn't 
help  telling,"  said  Sylvia,  laughing.  "  She  does  so 
pinch  whoever  is  next  her." 

"  There  was  nothing  about  a  dog  in  the  story  of 
the  bed  Ave  heard,"  said  Molly.  "  It  was  in  a  book 
that  a  boy  at  school  lent  Ralph.  I  wouldn't  ever  be 
frightened  if  I  had  Fusser,  I  don't  think.  I  do  so 
wish  I  had  asked  papa  to  let  him  come  with  us  — 
just  in  case,  you  know,  of  the  beds  having  anything 
funny  about  them :  it  would  be  so  comfortable  to 
have  Fusser." 

At  this  they  all  laughed,  and  aunty  promised  that 
if  Molly  felt  dissatisfied  with  the  appearance  of  her 
bed,  she  would  exchange  with  her.  And  not  long 
after,  Sylvia  and  Molly  began  to  look  so  sleepy,  in 
spite  of  their  protestations  that  the  dustman's  cart 
was  nowhere  near  their-  door,  that  aunty  insisted  they 
must  be  mistaken,  she  had  heard  his  warning  bell 
ringing  some  minutes  ago.  So  the  two  little  sisters 
came  round  to  say  good  night. 


MAKING    FRIENDS.  J3 

"  Good  night,  grandmother  dear,"  said  Molly,  in  a 
voice  which  tried  hard  to  be  brisk  as  usual  through 
the  sleepiness. 

Grandmother  laid  her  hand  on  her  shoulder  and 
looked  into  her  eyes.  Molly  had  nice  eyes  when  you 
looked  at  them  closely :  they  were  honest  and  candid, 
though  of  too  pale  a  blue  to  show  at  first  sight  the 
expression  they  really  contained.  Just  now  too,  they 
were  blinking  and  winking  a  little.  Still  grand- 
mother must  have  been  able  to  read  in  them  what  she 
wanted,  for  her  face  looked  satisfied  when  she  with- 
drew her  gaze. 

"  So  I  am  really  to  be  '  grandmother  dear,'  to  you, 
my  dear  funny  little  girl  ?  "  she  said. 

"Of  course,  grandmother  dear.  Really,  really  I 
mean,"  said  Molly,  laughing  at  herself.  "  Do  you 
see  it  in  my  eyes  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  do.  You  have  nice  honest  eyes, 
my  little  girl." 

Molly  flushed  a  little  with  pleasure.  "  I  thought 
they  were  rather  ugly.  Ralph  calls  them  '  cats','  and 
'  boiled  gooseberries,' "  she  said.  "  Anyway  Sylvia's  are 
much  prettier.     She  has  such  nice  long  eyelashes." 

"  Sylvia's  are  very  sweet,"  said  grandmother,  kiss- 
ing her  in  turn,  "and  we  won't  make  comparisons. 
Both  pairs  of  eyes  will  do  very  well  my  darlings,  if 

always 

'  The  light  within  them, 
Tender  is  and  true.' 

Now  good  night,  and  God  bless  my  little  grand- 
daughters. Ralph,  you'll  sit  up  with  me  a  little 
longer,  won't  you  ?  " 


14  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

"  What  nice  funny  things  grandmother  says, 
doesn't  she,  Sylvia?"  said  Molly,  as  they  were  un- 
dressing. 

"  She  says  nice  things,"  said  Sylvia,  "  I  don't 
know  about  there  being  funny.  You  call  every- 
thing funny,  Molly." 

"  Except  you  when  you're  going  to  bed,  for  then 
you're  very  often  rather  cross,"  said  Molly. 

But  as  she  was  only  in  fun,  Sylvia  took  it  in 
good  part,  and,  after  kissing  each  other  good  night, 
both  little  sisters  fell  asleep  without  loss  of  time. 


CHAPTER   II. 

LOST    IN   THE  LOUVRE. 

"  Oh  how  I  wish  that  I  had  lived 
In  the  ages  that  are  gone  ! ' ' 

A  Child's  "Wish. 

It  was  —  did  I  say  so  before  ?  the  children's  first 
visit  to  Paris.  They  had  travelled  a  good  deal, 
for  such  small  people  quite  "  a  very  good  deal,"  as 
Molly  used  to  maintain  for  the  benefit  of  their  less 
experienced  companions.  They  knew  England,  "of 
course."  Ralph  would  say  in  his  lordly,  big-boy 
fashion,  Scotland  too,  and  Wales,  and  they  had 
spent  some  time  in  Germany.  But  they  had  never 
been  in  Paris,  and  the  excitement  on  finding  the 
journey  safely  past  and  themselves  really  there  was 
very  considerable. 

"  And,  Molly,"  said  Sylvia,  on  their  way  from  the 
railway  station  to  the  hotel  where  rooms  had  been 
engaged  for  them,  "  remember  you've  promised  not 
to  awake  me  in  the  middle  of  the  night  if  you  begin 
thinking  about  the  top  of  the  bed  coming  down." 

"  And,  oh,  Sylvia !  I  wish  you  hadn't  reminded 
me  of  it  just  now,"  said  Molly  pathetically,  for 
which  all  the  satisfaction  she  received  was  a  some- 
what curt  observation  from  Sylvia,  that  she  shouldn't 
be  so  silly. 

15 


16  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

For  Sylvia,  though  in  reality  the  kindest  of  little 
elder  sisters,  was  sometimes  inclined  to  be  "  short " 
with  poor  Molly.  Sylvia  was  clever  and  quick,  and 
very  "  capable,"  remarkably  ready  at  putting  herself, 
as  it  were,  in  the  place  of  another  and  seeing  for  the 
time  being,  through  his  or  her  spectacles.  While 
Molly  had  not  got  further  than  opening  wide  her 
eyes,  and  not  unfrequently  her  mouth  too,  Sylvia, 
practical  in  the  way  that  only  people  of  lively 
imagination  can  be  so,  had  taken  in  the  whole  case, 
whatever  it  might  be,  and  set  her  ready  wits  to 
work  as  to  the  best  thing  to  be  said  or  done.  And 
Molly  would  wonderingly  admire,  and  wish  she  could 
manage  to  "  think  of  things  "  the  way  Sylvia  did. 

They  loved  each  other  dearly,  these  two  —  but 
to-night  they  were  tired,  and  when  people,  not 
children  only,  but  big  people  too,  very  often  —  are 
tired,  it  is  only  a  very  little  step  to  being  cross  and 
snappish.  And  when  aunty,  tired  too,  and  annoyed 
by  the  unamiable  tones,  turned  round  to  beg  them 
to  "  try  to  leave  off  squabbling ;  it  was  so  thoughtless 
of  them  to  disturb  their  grandmother,"  two  or  three 
big  tears  welled  up  in  Molly's  eyes,  though  it  was 
too  dark  in  the  omnibus,  which  was  taking  them 
and  their  luggage  from  the  station,  for  any  one  to 
see,  and  she  thought  to  herself  what  a  terrible  dis- 
appointment it  would  be  if,  after  all,  this  delightful, 
long-talked-of  visit  to  Paris,  were  to  turn  out  not 
delightful  at  all.  And  through  Sylvia's  honest  little 
heart  there  darted  a  quick  sting  of  pain  and  regret 
for  her  sharpness  to  Molly.     How  was   it  that  she 


LOST   IN   THE   LOUVRE.  17 

could  not  manage  to  keep  the  resolutions  so  often 
and  so  conscientiously  made  ?  How  was  it  that  she 
could  not  succeed  in  remembering  at  the  time,  the 
very  moment  at  which  she  was  tempted  to  be 
snappish  and  supercilious,  her  never-rea/^-forgotten 
motive  for  peculiar  gentleness  and  patience  with  her 
younger  sister,  the  promise  she  had  made,  now  so 
many  years  ago,  to  the  mother  Molly  could  scarcely 
even  remember,  to  be  kind,  very  kind,  and  gentle  to 
the  little,  flaxen-haired,  toddling  thing,  the  "baby" 
whom  that  dear  mother  had  loved  so  piteously. 

"  Eight  years  ago,"  said  Sylvia  to  herself.  "  I 
was  five  and  Molly  only  three  and  a  half  then. 
Poor  little  Molly,  how  funny  she  was !  " 

And  a  hand  crept  in  under  Molly's  sleeve,  and  a 
whisper  reached  her  ear. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  be  cross  or  to  tease  you,  Molly." 

And  Molly  in  a  moment  was  her  own  queer,  happy, 
muddle-headed  little  self  again. 

"  Dear  Sylvia,"  she  whispered  in  return,  "of  course 
you  don't.  You  never  do,  and  if  the  top  of  the  bed 
did  come  down,  I'm  sure  I'd  pull  you  out  first,  how- 
ever sleepy  I  was.  Only  of  course  I  know  it  won% 
and  it's  just  my  silly  way,  but  when  I'm  as  big  as 
you,  Sylvia,  I'll  get  out  of  it,  I'm  sure." 

"  You're  as  big  as  me  now,  you  silly  girl,"  said 
Sylvia  laughingly,  which  was  true.  Molly  was  tall 
and  well-grown  for  her  age,  while  Sylvia  was  small, 
so  that  very  often,  to  Molly's  delight,  they  were 
taken  for  twins. 

"  In    my   body,   but    not    in    1113^    mind,"    rejoined 


18  "  GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

Molly,  with  a  little  sigh.  "  I  wish  the  growing 
would  go  into  my  mind  for  a  little,  though  I 
wouldn't  like  to  be  much  smaller  than  you,  Sylvia. 
Perhaps  we  shouldn't  be  dressed  alike,  then." 

"  Do  be  quiet,  Molly,  you  are  such  an  awful 
chatterbox,"  growled  Ralph  from  his  corner.  "I 
was  just  having  a  nice  little  nap." 

He  was  far  too  "  grown-up  "  to  own  to  the  eager- 
ness with  which,  as  they  went  along,  he  had  been 
furtively  peeping  out  at  the  window  beside  him  —  or 
to  join  in  Molly's  screams  of  delight  at  the  brilliance 
of  the  illumined  shop  windows,  and  the  interminable 
perspective  of  gas  lamps  growing  longer  and  longer 
behind  them  as  they  rapidly  made  their  way. 

A  sudden  slackening  of  their  speed,  a  sharp  turn, 
and  a  rattle  over  the  stones,  told  of  their  arrival  at 
their  destination.  And  "  Oh  !  "  cried  Molly,  "  I  am 
so  glad.     Aren't  you  awfully  hungry,  Sylvia?" 

And  grandmother,  who,  to  tell  the  truth,  had  been 
indulging  in  a  peaceful,  real  little  nap  —  not  a  sham 
one  like  Ralph's  —  quite  woke  up  at  this,  and  told 
Molly  it  was  the  best  sign  in  the  world  to  be  hungry 
after  a  journey ;  she  was  delighted  to  find  her  so  good 
a  traveller. 

The  "  dinner-tea  "  which,  out  of  consideration  for 
the  children's  home  hours,  had  been  ordered  for  them, 
turned  out  delicious.  Never  had  they  tasted  such 
butter,  such  bread,  such  grilled  chicken,  and  fried 
potatoes!  And  to  complete  Molly's  satisfaction  the 
beds  proved  to  have  no  tops  to  them  at  all. 

"  I   told  you   so,"  said  Ralph    majestically,  when 


LOST   IK   THE   LOUVRE.  19 

they  had  made  the  tour  of  the  various  rooms  and 
settled  who  was  to  have  which,  and  though  neither 
Sylvia  nor  Molly  had  the  slightest  recollection  of  his 
"telling  you  so,"  they  were  wise  enough  to  say 
nothing. 

"  But  the  little  doors  in  the  walls  are  quite  as  bad, 
or  worse,"  Ralph  continued  mischievously.  "  There's 
one  at  the  head  of  your  bed,  Molly,"  —  Molly  and 
Sylvia  were  to  have  two  little  beds  in  the  same  room, 
standing  in  a  sort  of  alcove  —  "  which  I  am  almost 
sure  opens  on  to  a  secret  staircase." 

Molly  gave  a  little  shiver,  and  looked  up  appeal- 
ingly. 

"  Ralph,  you  are  not  to  tease  her,"  said  aunty. 
"  Remember  all  your  promises  to  your  father." 

Ralph  looked  rather  snubbed. 

"Let  us  talk  of  something  pleasant,"  continued 
aunty,  anxious  to  change  the  subject.  "  What  shall 
we  do  to-morrow  ?     What  shall  we  go  to  see  first  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  grandmother.  "  What  are  your  pet 
wishes,  children?" 

"  Notre  Dame,"  cried  Molly. 

"  The  Louvre,"  said  Sylvia. 

"Anything  you  like.  I  don't  care  much  for  sight- 
seeing," said  Ralph. 

"  That's  a  pity,"  said  aunty  drily.  "  However,  as 
you  are  the  only  gentleman  of  the  party,  and  we  are 
all  dependent  on  you,  perhaps  it  is  just  as  well  that 
you  have  no  special  fancies  of  your  own.  So  to- 
morrow I  propose  that  we  should  go  a  drive  in  the 
morning,  to  give  you  a  general  idea  of  Paris,  return- 


20  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

ing  by  Notre  Dame.  In  the  afternoon  I  have  some 
calls  to  make,  and  a  little  shopping  to  do,  and  you 
three  must  not  forget  to  write  to  your  father.  Then 
the  next  day  we  can  go  to  the  Louvre,  as  Sylvia 
wished." 

"  Thank  you,  aunty,"  said  Sylvia.  "  It  isn't  so 
much  for  the  pictures  I  want  to  go,  but  I  do  so  want 
to  see  the  room  where  poor  Henry  the  Fourth  was 
killed.     I  am  so  fond  of  Henry  the  Fourth." 

Aunty  smiled,  and  Ralph  burst  out  laughing. 

"  What  a  queer  idea  !  "  he  said.  "  If  you  are  so 
fond  of  him,  I  should  think  you  would  rather  not  see 
the  room  where  he  was  killed." 

Sylvia  grew  scarlet,  and  Molly  flew  up  in  her 
defence. 

"You've  no  business  to  laugh  at  Sylvia,  Ralph," 
she  cried.  "  /  understand  her  quite  well.  And  she 
knows  a  great  deal  more  history  than  you  do  —  and 
about  pictures,  too.  Of  course  we  want  to  see  the 
pictures,  too.  There's  that  beautiful  blue  and  orange 
one  of  Murillo's  that  papa  has  a  little  copy  of.  It's 
at  the  Louvre." 

"I  didn't  say  it  wasn't,"  retorted  Ralph.  "It's 
Sylvia's  love  of  horrors  I  was  laughing  at." 

"  She  doesn't  love  horrors,"  replied  Molly,  more 
and  more  indignant. 

"  You  needn't  talk,"  said  Ralph  coolly.  "  Who 
was  it  that  took  a  box  of  matches  in  her  pocket  to 
Holyrood  Palace,  and  was  going  to  strike  one  to 
look  for  the  blood-stains  on  the  floor?  It  was  the 
only  thing  you  cared  to  see,  and  yet  you  are  such  a 


LOST   IN   THE   LOUVRE.  21 

goose  —  crying  out  if  a  butterfly  settles  on  you.  I 
think  girls  are  —  " 

"  Ralph,  my  boy,"  said  grandmother,  seeing  that 
by  this  time  Molly  was  almost  in  tears ;  "  whatever 
you  think  of  girls,  you  make  me,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
think  that  boys'  love  of  teasing  is  utterly  incompre- 
hensible —  and  oh,  so  unmanly  !  " 

The  last  touch  went  home. 

"  I  was  only  in  fun,  grandmother,"  said  Ralph 
with  unusual  meekness ;  "  I  didn't  mean  really  to 
vex  Molly." 

So  peace  was  restored. 

To-morrow  turned  out  fine,  deliciously  fine. 

"  Not  like  England,"  said  Molly  superciliously, 
"  where  it  always  rains  when  you  want  it  to  be  fine." 

They  made  the  most  of  the  beautiful  weather, 
though  by  no  means  agreeing  with  aunty's  reminder 
that  even  in  Paris  it  did  sometimes  rain,  and  the 
three  pairs  of  eager  feet  were  pretty  tired  by  the 
time  bed-time  came. 

And  oh,  what  a  disappointment  the  next  morning 
brought ! 

The  children  woke  to  a  regular,  pouring  wet  day, 
no  chance  of  fulfilling  the  programme  laid  out,  for 
Sylvia  was  subject  to  sore  throats,  and  grandmother 
would  not  let  her  go  out  in  the  damp,  and  there 
would  be  no  fun  in  going  to  the  Louvre  without  her. 
So,  as  what  can't  be  cured  must  be  endured,  the 
children  had  just  to  make  the  best  of  it  and  amuse 
themselves  in  the  house  in  the  hopes  of  sunshine  again 
for  to-morrow.     These  hopes  were  happily  fulfilled. 


22  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

"  A  lovely  day,"  said  aunty,  "  all  the  brighter  for 
yesterday's  rain." 

"  And  we  may  go  to  the  Louvre,"  exclaimed 
Sylvia  eagerly. 

Aunty  hesitated  and  turned,  as  everybody  did 
when  they  were  at  a  loss,  to  grandmother. 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  "  she  said.  She  was  reluc- 
tant to  disappoint  the  children  —  Sylvia  especially 
—  as  they  had  all  been  very  good  the  day  before,  but 
yet  —  "It  is  Saturday,  and  the  Louvre  will  be  so 
crowded  you  know,  mother." 

"  But  /shall  be  with  you,"  said  Ralph. 

"And  I!  "  said  grandmother.  "  Is  not  a  little  old 
lady  like  me  equal  to  taking  care  of  you  all  ?  " 

"  Will  you  really  come  too,  dear  grandmother  ? " 
exclaimed  Sylvia  and  Molly  in  a  breath.  "  Oh,  how 
nice ! " 

"  I  should  like  to  go,"  said  grandmother.  "  It  is 
ever  so  many  years  since  I  was  at  the  Louvre." 

"  Do  let  us  go  then.  Oh,  do  let  us  all  go,"  said 
the  little  girls.  "  You  know  we  are  leaving  on  Tues- 
day, and  something  might  come  in  the  way  again  on 
Monday." 

So  it  was  settled. 

"  Remember,  children,"  said  grandmother  as  they 
were  all  getting  out  of  the  carriage,  "  remember  to 
keep  close  together.  You  have  no  idea  how  easily 
some  of  you  might  get  lost  in  the  crowd." 

"  Lost  I "  repeated  Sylvia  incredulously. 

"  Lost  !  "  echoed  Molly. 

"  LOST  ! "  shouted  Ralph  so  loudly  that  some  of 


LOST   IN   THE   LOUVRE.  23 

their  fellow-sight-seers,  passing  beside  them  into  the 
palace,  turned  round  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 
"  How  could  we  possibly  get  lost  here  ?  " 

"Very  easily,"  replied  aunty  calmly.  "There  is 
nothing,  to  people  unaccustomed  to  it,  so  utterly 
bewildering  as  a  crowd." 

"Not  to  me,"  persisted  Ralph.  "I  could  thread 
my  way  in  and  out  of  the  people  till  I  found  you. 
The  girls  might  get  lost,  perhaps." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Molly ;  "  as  it  happens,  Master 
Ralph,  I  think  it  would  be  much  harder  to  lose  us 
than  you.  For  one  thing  we  can  speak  French  ever 
such  a  great  deal  better  than  you." 

"And  then  there  are  two  of  us.  If  one  of  us  was 
lost,  grandmother  and  aunty  could  hold  out  the 
other  one  as  a  pattern,  and  say,  'I  want  a  match  for 
this,' "  said  Sylvia  laughing,  and  a  little  eager  to 
prevent  the  impending  skirmish  between  Ralph  and 
Molly. 

"  Hush,  children,  you  really  mustn't  chatter  so," 
said  aunty.  "  Use  your  eyes,  and  let  your  tongues, 
poor  things,  rest  for  a  little." 

They  got  on  very  happily.  Aunty  managed  to 
show  the  children  the  special  picture  or  pictures  each 
had  most  wanted  to  see  —  including  the  "  beautiful 
blue  and  orange  "  one  of  Molly's  recollection.  She 
nearly  screamed  with  delight  when  she  saw  "how 
like  it  was  to  the  one  in  papa's  study,"  but  took  in 
good  part  Ralph's  cynical  observation  that  a  thing 
that  was  copied  from  another  was  generally  supposed 
to  be  "  like  "  the  original. 


24  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

Only  Sylvia  was  a  little  disappointed  when,  after 
looking  at  the  pictures  in  one  of  the  smaller  rooms  — 
a  room  in  no  way  peculiar  or  remarkable  as  differing 
fvom  the  others  — they  suddenly  discovered  that  they 
were  in  the  famous  "Salle  Henri  II.,"  where  Henry 
the  Fourth  was  killed. 

"  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  like  this,"  said  Sylvia 
lugubriously.  "  Why  do  they  call  it  '  Salle  Henri 
II.  ? '  It  should  be  called  after  Henry  the  Fourth  ; 
and  I  don't  think  it  should  have  pictures  in,  and  be 
just  like  a  common  room." 

"  What  would  you  have  it  ?  Hung  round  with 
black  and  tapers  burning  ?  "  said  her  aunt. 

"  I  don't  know  —  any  way  I  thought  it  would  have 
had  old  tapestry,"  said  Sylvia.  "  I  should  like  it  to 
have  been  kept  just  the  way  it  was  then." 

"Poor  Sylvia  !  "  said  grandmother.  "  But  we  must 
hurry  on,  children.  We  have  not  seen  the  '  Petite 
Galerie  '  yet  —  dear  me,  how  many  years  it  is  since  I 
was  in  it !  —  and  some  of  the  most  beautiful  pictures 
are  there." 

They  passed  on  —  grandmother  leaning  on  aunty's 
arm  —  the  three  children  close  behind,  through  a 
room  called  the  "  Salle  des  Sept  Chemine'es,"  along 
a  vestibule  filled  with  cases  of  jewellery,  leading 
again  to  one  of  the  great  staircases.  Something  in 
the  vestibule  attracted  grandmother's  attention,  and 
she  stopped  for  a  moment.  Sylvia,  not  interested  in 
what  the  others  were  looking  at,  turned  round  and 
retraced  her  steps  a  few  paces  by  the  way  they  had 
entered  the  hall.     A  thought  had  struck  her. 


LOST   IN   THE   LOUVKE.  25 

"  I'd  just  like  to  run  back  for  a  moment  to  Henry 
the  Fourth's  room,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  I  want 
to  notice  the  shape  of  it  exactly,  and  how  many 
windows  there  are,  and  then  I  think  I  can  fancy  to 
myself  how  it  looked  then,  with  the  tapestry  and 
all  the  old-fashioned  furniture." 

No  sooner  thought  than  done.  In  a  moment  she 
was  back  in  the  room  which  had  so  curiously  fas- 
cinated her,  taking  accurate  note  of  its  features. 

"I  shall  remember  it  now,"  she  said  to  herself, 
after  gazing  round  her  for  a  minute  or  two.  "  Now 
I  must  run  after  grandmother  and  the  others,  or 
they'll  be  thinking  I  am  lost." 

She  turned  with  a  little  laugh  at  the  idea,  and 
hastened  out  of  the  room,  through  the  few  groups 
of  people  standing  or  moving  about,  looking  at  the 
pictures  —  hastened  out,  expecting  in  another  moment 
to  see  the  familiar  figures.  The  room  into  which  she 
made  her  way  was  also  filled  with  pictures,  as  had 
been  the  one  through  which  she  had  entered  the 
"  Salle  Henri  II."  She  crossed  it  without  misgiving : 
she  had  no  idea  that  she  had  left  the  Salle  Henri  II. 
by  the  opposite  door  from  that  by  which  she  had 
entered  it ! 

Poor  little  Sylvia,  she  did  not  know  that  grand- 
mother's warning  was  actually  to  be  fulfilled.  She 
was  "  lost  in  the  Louvre  !  " 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  WHERE   IS    SYLVIA  ?  " 

"  What  called  me  back  ? 
A  voice  of  happy  childhood, 

$  jfc  %  }Js  s|i  j|c 

Yet  might  I  not  bewail  the  vision  gone, 
My  heart  so  leapt  to  that  dear  loving  tone." 

Mrs.  Hemans,  "An  Hour  of  Romance." 

She  did  not  find  out  her  mistake.  She  passed 
through  the  room  and  entered  the  vestibule  into 
which  it  led,  quite  confident  that  she  would  meet 
the  others  in  an  instant.  There  were  several  groups 
standing  about  this  vestibule  as  there  had  been  in 
the  other,  but  none  composed  of  the  figures  she  was 
looking  for. 

"  They  must  have  passed  on,"  said  Sylvia  to  her- 
self; "I  wish  they  hadn't;  perhaps  they  never 
noticed  I  wasn't  beside  them." 

Then  for  the  first  time  a  slight  feeling  of  anxiety 
seized  her.  She  hurried  quickly  across  the  ante- 
room where  she  was  standing,  to  find  herself  in 
another  "  salle,"  which  was  quite  unlike  any  of  the 
others  she  had  seen.  Instead  of  oil-paintings,  it  was 
hung  round  with  colourless  engravings.  Here,  too, 
there  were  several  people  standing  about,  but  none 
whom,  even  for  an  instant,  Sylvia  could  have  mis- 
taken for  her  friends. 

26 


Sylvia  lost  in  the  Louvre.  —  pp.26,  27. 


"WHERE   IS   SYLVIA?"  27 

"  How  quickly  they  must  have  hurried  on,"  she 
thought,  her  heart  beginning  to  beat  faster.  "  I  do 
think  they  might  have  waited  a  little.  They  must 
have  missed  me  by  now." 

No  use  delaying  in  this  room.  Sylvia  hurried 
on,  finding  herself  now  in  that  part  of  the  palace 
devoted  to  ancient  pottery  and  other  antiquities, 
uninteresting  to  a  child.  The  rooms  through  which 
she  passed  were  much  less  crowded  than  those  con- 
taining pictures.  At  a  glance  it  was  easy  to  distin- 
guish that  those  she  was  in  search  of  were  not  there. 
Still  she  tried  to  keep  up  heart. 

"  There  is  nothing  here  they  would  much  care 
about,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  If  I  could  get  back  to 
the  picture  rooms  I  should  be  sure  to  find  them." 

At  last,  to  her  delight,  after  crossing  a  second 
vestibule,  from  which  descended  a  great  staircase 
which  she  fancied  she  had  seen  before,  she  entered 
another  of  the  long  galleries  completely  hung  with 
paintings.     She  bounded  forward  joyously. 

"  They're  sure  to  be  here,"  she  said. 

The  room  was  very  crowded.  She  dared  not  rush 
through  it  as  fast  as  hitherto  ;  it  was  so  crowded  that 
she  felt  it  would  be  quite  possible  to  overlook  a  group 
of  even  four.  More  than  once  she  fancied  she  caught 
sight  of  grandmother's  small  and  aunty's  taller  figure, 
both  dressed  in  black.  Once  her  heart  gave  a  great 
throb  of  delight  when  she  fancied  she  distinguished 
through  the  crowd  the  cream-coloured  felt  hat  and 
feathers  of  Molly,  her  double.  But  no  —  it  was  a 
cream-coloured  felt  hat,  but  the  face  below  it  was  not 


28  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

Molly's.  Then  at  last  a  panic  seized  the  poor  little 
girl.  She  fairly  lost  her  head,  and  the  tears  blinding 
her  so,  that  had  Molly  and  all  of  them  been  close 
beside  her,  she  could  scarcely  have  perceived  them, 
she  ran  half  frantically  through  the  rooms.  Half 
frantically  in  reality,  but  scarcely  so  to  outward 
appearance.  Her  habit  of  self-control,  her  uncon- 
querable British  dislike  to  being  seen  in  tears,  or  to 
making  herself  conspicuous,  prevented  her  distress 
being  so  visible  as  to  attract  general  attention.  Some 
few  people  remarked  her  as  she  passed — a  forlorn 
little  Evangeline  —  her  pretty  face  now  paler,  now 
more  flushed  than  its  wont,  as  alternations  of  hope 
and  fear  succeeded  each  other,  and  wondered  if  she 
had  lost  her  party  or  her  way.  But  she  had  disap- 
peared before  there  was  time  to  do  more  than  notice 
her.  More  than  once  she  was  on  the  point  of  asking 
help  or  advice  from  the  cocked-hat  officials  at  the 
doors,  but  she  was  afraid.  In  some  ways  she  was 
very  ignorant  and  childish  for  her  age,  notwithstand- 
ing her  little  womanlinesses  and  almost  precocious 
good  sense,  and  to  tell  the  truth,  a  vague  misty 
terror  was  haunting  her  brain  —  a  terror  which  she 
would  hardly  have  confessed  to  Molly,  not  for  worlds 
have  told  to  Ralph  —  that,  being  in  France  and  not 
in  England,  she  might  somehow  be  put  in  prison,  were 
the  state  of  the  case  known  to  these  same  cocked-hat 
gentlemen  !  So,  when  at  last  one  of  these  dignitaries, 
who  had  been  noticing  her  rapid  progress  down  the 
long  gallery  "  Napoleon  III.,  "  stopped  her  with  the 
civil  inquiry,  "  Had  Mademoiselle  lost  her  way  ?  was 


"WHERE   IS   SYLVIA?"  29 

she  seeking  some  one  ?  "  she  bit  her  lips  tight  and 
winked  her  eyes  briskly  not  to  cry,  as  she  replied  in 
her  best  French,  "  Oh  no,"  she  could  find  her  way. 
And  then,  as  a  sudden  thought  struck  her  that  possi- 
bly he  had  been  deputed  by  grandmother  and  aunty, 
who  must  have  missed  her  by  now,  to  look  for  her, 
she  glanced  up  at  him  again  with  the  inquiry,  had 
he,  perhaps,  seen  a  little  girl  like  her?  just  like  her? 

"  Une  petite  fille  comme  Mademoiselle  ?  "  replied 
the  man  smiling,  but  not  taking  in  the  sense  of  the 
question.  "  No,  he  had  not."  How  could  there  be 
two  little  demoiselles,  "tout  a  fait  pareilles?"  He 
shook  his  head,  good-natured  but  mystified,  and 
Sylvia,  getting  frightened  again,  thanked  him  and 
sped  off  anew. 

The  next  doorway  —  by  this  time  she  had  uncon- 
sciously in  her  panic  and  confusion  begun  actually 
to  retrace  her  steps  round  the  main  court  of  the 
palace  —  brought  her  again  into  a  room  filled  with 
statuary  and  antiquities.  She  was  getting  so  tired, 
so  out  of  breath,  that  the  excitement  now  deserted 
her.  She  sat  down  on  the  ledge  of  one  of  the  great 
marble  vases,  in  a  corner  where  her  little  figure  was 
almost  hidden  from  sight,  and  began  to  think,  as 
quietly  and  composedly  as  she  could,  what  she 
should  do.  The  tears  were  slowly  creeping  up  into 
her  eyes  again ;  she  let  two  or  three  fall,  and  then 
resolutely  drove  the  others  back. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ? "  she  thought,  and  joined  to 
her  own  terrors  there  was  now  the  certainty  of  the 
anxiety  and  misery  the  others  must,  by  this  time,  be 


30  "  GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

suffering  on  her  account.  "  Oh,  poor  little  Molly," 
she  said  to  herself.  "  How  dreadfully  she  will  be 
crying  !     What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

Two  or  three  ideas  struck  her.  Should  she  go 
down  one  of  the  staircases  which  every  now  and  then 
she  came  upon,  and  find  her  way  out  of  the  palace, 
and  down  in  the  street  try  to  call  a  cab  to  take  her 
back  to  the  hotel  ?  But  she  had  no  money  with  her, 
and  no  idea  what  a  cab  would  cost.  And  she  was 
frightened  of  strange  cabmen,  and  by  no  means  sure 
that  she  could  intelligibly  explain  the  address.  Be- 
sides this,  she  could  not  bear  to  go  home  without 
them  all,  feeling  certain  that  they  would  not  desert 
the  palace  till  they  had  searched  every  corner  for  her. 

"If  I  could  but  be  sure  of  any  place  they  must 
pass,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  her  good  sense  reviv- 
ing ;  "  it  would  be  the  best  way  to  wait  there  till 
they  come." 

She  jumped  up  again.  "The  door  out!"  she 
exclaimed.  "  They  must  pass  it.  Only  perhaps," 
her  hopes  falling,  "  there  are  several  doors.  The  best 
one  to  wait  at  would  be  the  one  we  came  in  by,  if  I 
could  but  tell  which  it  was.  Let  me  see  —  yes,  I 
remember,  as  we  came  upstairs,  aunty  said  '  This 
is  the  Grand  Escalier.'  If  I  ask  for  the  '  Grand 
Escalier.' " 

Her  courage  returned.  The  very  next  cocked-hat 
she  came  upon,  she  asked  to  direct  her  to  the  "  Grand 
Escalier."  He  sent  her  straight  back  through  a  ves- 
tibule she  had  just  left,  at  the  other  entrance  to  which 
she  found  herself  at  the  head  of  the  great  staircase. 


"WHERE   IS    SYLVIA?"  31 

"I  am  sure  this  is  the  one  we  came  up,"  she 
thought,  as  she  ran  down,  and  her  certainty  was 
confirmed,  when,  having  made  her  way  out  through 
the  entrance  hall  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  she 
caught  sight,  a  few  yards  off,  of  an  old  apple  woman's 
stall  in  the  courtyard. 

"I  remember  that  stall  quite  well,"  thought 
Sylvia,  and  in  her  delight  she  felt  half  inclined  to 
run  up  to  the  apple  woman  and  kiss  her.  "  She 
looks  nice,"  she  said  to  herself,  "and  they  must  pass 
that  way  to  get  to  the  street  we  came  along.  I'll  go 
and  stand  beside  her." 

Half  timidly  the  little  girl  advanced  towards  the 
stall.  She  had  stood  there  a  minute  or  two  before 
its  owner  noticed  her,  and  turned  to  ask  if  Mad- 
emoiselle wanted  an  apple. 

Sylvia  shook  her  head.  She  had  no  money  and 
did  not  want  any  apples,  but  might  she  stand  there 
to  watch  for  her  friends,  whom  she  had  lost  in  the 
crowd.  The  old  woman,  with  bright  black  eyes  and 
shrivelled-up,  yellow-red  cheeks,  not  unlike  one  of 
her  own  apples  that  had  been  thrown  aside  as  spoilt, 
turned  and  looked  with  kindly  curiosity  at  the  little 
girl. 

"  Might  Mademoiselle  wait  there  ?  Certainly.  But 
she  must  not  stand,"  and  as  she  spoke  she  drew  out 
a  little  stool,  on  which  Sylvia  was  only  too  glad  to 
seat  herself,  and  feeling  a  little  less  anxious,  she 
mustered  courage  to  ask  the  old  woman  if  every  one 
came  out  at  this  door. 

"  To  go  where  ?  "  inquired  the  old  woman,  and  when 


32  "GRANDMOTHER  DEAR." 

Sylvia  mentioned  the  name  of  the  hotel  and  the  street 
where  they  were  staying,  "  Ah,  yes !  "  said  her  in- 
formant ;  "  Mademoiselle  might  be  quite  satisfied.  It 
was  quite  sure  Madame,  her  mother,  would  come  out 
by  that  entrance." 

"  Not  my  mother,"  said  Sylvia.  "  I  have  no 
mother.     It  is  my  grandmother." 

"  The  grandmother  of  Mademoiselle,"  repeated  the 
old  woman  with  increased  interest.  "  Ah,  yes !  I 
too  had  once  a  granddaughter." 

"  Did  she  die  ?  "  said  Sylvia. 

"Poor  angel,  yes,"  replied  the  apple-seller ;  "she 
went  to  the  good  God,  and  no  doubt  it  is  better.  She 
was  orphan,  Mademoiselle,  and  I  was  obliged  to  be 
out  all  day,  and  she  would  come  too.  And  it  is 
so  cold  in  Paris,  the  winter.  She  got  a  bad  bron- 
chitis and  she  died,  and  her  old  grandmother  is  now 
alone." 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  said  Sylvia.  And  her  thoughts 
went  off  to  her  own  grandmother,  and  Molly,  and  all 
of  them,  with  fresh  sympathy  for  the  anxiety  they 
must  be  suffering.  She  leant  back  on  the  wall 
against  which  the  old  woman  had  placed  the  stool, 
feeling  very  depressed  and  weary  —  so  weary  that 
she  did  not  feel  able  to  do  anything  but  sit  still, 
which  no  doubt  from  every  point  of  view  was  the 
best  thing  she  could  do,  though  but  for  her  wearied- 
ness  she  would  have  felt  much  inclined  to  rush  off 
again  to  look  for  them,  thus  decidedly  decreasing 
her  chance  of  finding  them. 

"Mademoiselle    is   tired,"    said    the    old   woman, 


"WHERE   IS   SYLVIA?"  33 

kindly.  "  She  need  not  be  afraid.  The  ladies  are 
sure  to  come  out  here.  I  will  watch  well  those  who 
pass.  A  little  demoiselle  dressed  like  Mademoiselle  ? 
One  could  not  mistake.  Mademoiselle  may  feel 
satisfied." 

Somehow  the  commonplace,  kindly  words  did 
make  Sylvia  feel  less  anxious.  And  she  was  very 
tired.  Not  so  much  with  running  about  the  Louvre ; 
that,  in  reality,  had  not  occupied  more  than  three 
quarters  of  an  hour,  but  with  the  fright  and  excite- 
ment, and  the  excitement  of  a  different  kind  too, 
that  she  had  had  the  last  few  days,  poor  little 
Sylvia  was  really  quite  tired  out. 

She  laid  her  head  down  on  the  edge  of  the  table 
on  which  the  apples  were  spread  out,  hardly  taking 
in  the  sense  of  what  the  old  woman  was  saying  — 
that  in  half-an-hour  at  most  Mademoiselle  would 
find  her  friends,  for  then  the  doors  would  be  closed, 
and  every  one  would  be  obliged  to  leave  the  palace. 
She  felt  satisfied  that  the  old  woman  would  be  on 
the  look-out  for  the  little  party  she  had  described  to 
her,  and  she  thought  vaguely  that  she  would  ask 
grandmother  to  give  her  a  sixpence  or  a  shilling  — 
no,  not  a  sixpence  or  a  shilling,  —  she  was  in  France, 
not  in  England  —  what  should  she  say  ?  A  franc  — 
half  a  franc  —  how  much  was  equal  to  a  sixpence  or 
a  shilling  ?  She  thought  it  over  mistily  for  a  moment 
or  two,  and  then  thought  no  more  about  it —  she 
had  fallen  fast  asleep  ! 

But  how  was  this  ?  She  had  fallen  asleep  with  her 
head  on  the  apple  woman's  stall ;  when  she  looked 


34  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

round  her  again  where  was  she?  For  a  minute  or 
two  she  did  not  in  the  least  recognise  the  room  —  then 
it  suddenly  flashed  upon  her  she  was  in  the  Salle 
Henri  II.,  the  room  where  poor  Henry  the  Fourth 
was  killed  !  But  how  changed  it  was  —  the  pictures 
were  all  gone,  the  walls  were  hung  with  the  tap- 
estry she  had  wished  she  could  see  there,  and  the 
room  was  but  dimly  lighted  by  a  lamp  hanging  from 
the  centre  of  the  roof.  Sylvia  did  not  feel  in  any 
way  surprised  at  the  transformation  — but  she  looked 
about  her  with  great  interest  and  curiosity.  Sud- 
denly a  slight  feeling  of  fear  came  over  her,  when  in 
one  corner  she  saw  the  hangings  move,  and  from  be- 
hind the  tapestry  a  hand,  a  very  long  white  hand, 
appear.  Whose  could  it  be  ?  Sylvia's  fear  increased 
to  terror  when  it  suddenly  struck  her  that  this  must 
be  the  night  of  the  14th  of  May,  the  night  on  which 
Henry  of  Navarre  was  to  be  killed.  She  gave  a 
scream  of  terror,  or  what  she  fancied  a  scream ;  in 
reality  it  was  the  faintest  of  muffled  sounds,  like  the 
tiny  squeal  of  a  distressed  mouse,  which  seemed  to 
startle  the  owner  of  the  hand  into  quicker  measures. 
He  threw  back  the  hangings  and  came  towards 
Sylvia,  addressing  her  distinctly.  The  voice  was  so 
kind  that  her  courage  returned,  and  she  looked  up 
at  the  new  comer.  His  face  was  pale  and  some- 
what worn-looking,  the  eyes  were  bright  and  spark- 
ling, and  benevolent  in  expression ;  his  tall  figure 
was  curiously  dressed  in  a  fashion  which  yet  did  not 
seem  quite  unfamiliar  to  the  little  girl — a  sort  of 
doublet  or  jacket  of  rich  crimson  velvet,  with  lace  at 


"WHERE   IS   SYLVIA?"  35 

the  collar  and  cuffs,  short  trousers  fastened  in  at 
the  knees,  "  very  like  Ralph's  knickerbockers,"  said 
Sylvia  to  herself,  long  pointed-toed  shoes,  like  canoes, 
and  on  the  head  a  little  cap  edged  with  gold,  half 
coronet,  half  smoking  cap,  it  seemed  to  her.  Where 
had  she  ever  seen  this  old-world  figure  before  ?  She 
gazed  at  him  in  perplexity. 

"  Why  are  you  so  frightened,  Mademoiselle  ? " 
said  the  stranger,  and  curiously  enough  his  voice 
sounded  very  like  that  of  the  most  amiable  of  her 
cocked-hat  friends. 

Sylvia  hesitated. 

"I  don't  think  I  am  frightened,"  she  said,  and 
though  she  spoke  English  and  the  stranger  had 
addressed  her  in  French,  he  seemed  quite  to  under- 
stand her.  "  I  am  only  tired,  and  there  was  some- 
thing the  matter.     I  can't  remember  what  it  was." 

"  I  know,"  replied  her  visitor.  "  You  can't  find 
Molly  and  the  others.  Never  mind.  If  you  come 
with  me  I'll  take  you  to  them.  I  know  all  the  ins 
and  outs  of  the  palace.  I  have  lived  here  so  long, 
you  see." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  but  Sylvia  hesitated.  "  Who 
are  you?"  she  said. 

A  curious  smile  flickered  over  the  face  before  her. 

"Don't  you  know?"  he  said.  "I  am  surprised  at 
that.     I  thought  you  knew  me  quite  well." 

"Are  you?"  said  Sylvia — "yes,  I  am  sure  you 
must  be  one  of  the  pictures  in  the  long  gallery.  I 
remember  looking  at  you  this  afternoon.  How  did 
you  get  down  ?" 


36  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

"  No,"  said  the  stranger,  "  Mademoiselle  is  not 
quite  right.  How  could  there  be  two  'tout  a  fait 
pareils  '  ?  "  and  again  his  voice  sounded  exactly  like 
that  of  the  cocked-hat  who  would  not  understand 
when  she  had  asked  him  if  he  had  seen  Molly.  Yet 
she  still  felt  sure  he  was  mistaken,  he  must  be  the 
picture  she  remembered. 

"  It  is  very  queer,"  she  said.  "  If  you  are  not  the 
picture,  who  are  you  then  ?  " 

"  I  pass  my  time,"  said  the  figure,  somewhat  irrele- 
vantly, "between  this  room,  where  I  was  killed  and 
the  '  Salle  des  Caryatides,'  where  I  was  married. 
On  the  whole  1  prefer  this  room." 

"Are  you  —  can  you  be  —  Henry  the  Fourth?" 
exclaimed  Sylvia.  "  Oh  !  poor  Henry  the  Fourth,  I 
am  so  afraid  of  them  coming  to  kill  you  again.  Come, 
let  us  run  quick  to  the  old  apple  woman,  she  will 
take  care  of  you  till  we  find  grandmother." 

She  in  turn  held  out  her  hand.  The  king-  took  it 
and  held  it  a  moment  in  his,  and  a  sad,  very  sad 
smile  overspread  his  face. 

"  Alas  !  "  he  said,  "  I  cannot  leave  the  palace.  I 
have  no  little  granddaughter  like  Mademoiselle.  I 
am  alone,  always  alone.  Farewell,  my  little  de- 
moiselle.    Les  voila  qui  viennent." 

The  last  words  he  seemed  to  speak  right  into  her 
ears,  so  clear  and  loud  they  sounded.  Sylvia  started 
— -opened  her  eyes  — no,  there  was  no  king  to  be 
seen,  only  the  apple  woman,  who  had  been  gently 
shaking  her  awake,  and  who  now  stood  pointing  out 
to  her  a  little  group  of  four  people  hurrying  towards 


"WHERE  IS   SYLVIA?"  37 

them,  of  whom  the  foremost,  hurrying  the  fastest  of 
all,  was  a  fair-haired  little  girl  with  a  cream-coloured 
felt  hat  and  feathers,  who,  sobbing,  threw  herself 
into  S}dvia's  arms,  and  hugged  and  hugged  as  if  she 
never  would  let  go. 

"  Oh,  Sylvia,  oh,  my  darling !  "  she  cried.  "  I 
thought  you  were  lost  for  always.  Oh,  I  have  been 
so  frightened  —  oh,  we  have  all  been  so  frightened. 
I  thought  perhaps  they  had  taken  you  away  to  one 
of  the  places  where  the  tops  of  the  beds  come  down, 
or  to  that  other  place  on  the  river,  the  Morgue, 
where  they  drown  people,  only  I  didn't  say  so,  not 
to  frighten  poor  grandmother  worse.  Oh,  grand- 
mother dear,  aren't  you  glad  she's  found?" 

Sylvia  was  crying  too  by  this  time,  and  the  old 
apple  woman  was  wiping  her  eyes  with  a  corner  of 
her  apron.  You  may  be  sure  grandmother  gave  her 
a  present.  I  rather  think  it  was  of  a  five-franc 
piece,  which  was  very  extravagant  of  grandmother, 
wasn't  it? 

They  had  been  of  course  hunting  for  Sylvia,  as 
people  always  do  for  anything  that  is  lost,  from  a 
little  girl  to  a  button-hook,  before  they  find  it,  in 
every  place  but  the  right  one.  I  think  it  was  grand- 
mother's bright  idea  at  last  to  make  their  way  to  the 
entrance  and  wait  there.  There  had  been  quite  a 
commotion  among  the  cocked-hats  who  had  not  seen 
Sylvia,  only  unfortunately  they  had  not  managed  to 
communicate  with  the  cocked-hats  who  had  seen 
her,  and  the}-  had  shown  the  greatest  zeal  in  trying 
to  "  match  "  the  little  girl  in  the  cream-coloured  hat, 


38  "  GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

held  out  to  them  as  a  pattern  by  the  brisk  old  lady 
in  black,  who  spoke  such  beautiful  French,  that  they 
"  demanded  themselves "  seriously  if  the  somewhat 
eccentric  behaviour  of  the  party  could  be  explained, 
as  all  eccentricities  should  of  course  always  be  ex- 
plained, by  the  fact  of  their  being  English !  Aunty's 
distress  had  been  great,  and  she  had  not  "  kept  her 
head  "  as  well  as  grandmother,  whose  energies  had  a 
happy  knack  of  always  rising  to  the  occasion. 

"What  will  Walter  think  of  us,"  said  aunty 
piteously,  referring  to  the  children's  father,  "if  we 
begin  by  losing  one  of  them?"  And  she  unmerci- 
fully snubbed  Ralph's  not  unreasonable  suggestion 
of  "  detectives ; "  he  had  always  heard  the  French 
police  system  was  so  excellent. 

Ralph  had  been  as  unhappy  as  any  of  them, 
especially  as  grandmother  had  strenuously  forbidden 
his  attempting  to  mend  matters  by  "  threading  his 
way  in  and  out,"  and  getting  lost  himself  in  the 
process.  And  yet  when  they  were  all  comfortably 
at  the  hotel  again,  their  troubles  forgotten,  and  Sylvia 
had  time  to  relate  her  remarkable  dream,  he  teased 
her  unmercifully  the  whole  evening  about  her  de- 
scription of  the  personal  appearance  of  Henry  the 
Fourth.  He  was,  according  to  Ralph,  neither  tall 
nor  pale,  and  he  certainly  could  not  have  had  long 
thin  hands,  nor  did  people  —  kings,  that  is  to  say,  at 
that  date  —  wear  lace  ruffles  or  pointed  shoes.  Had 
Molly  not  known,  for  a  fact,  that  all  their  lesson 
books  were  unget-at-ably  packed  up,  she  would 
certainly  have  suspected  Ralph  of  a  sly  peep  at  Mrs. 


"WHERE   IS    SYLVIA?"  39 

Markham,  just  on  purpose  "  to  set  Sylvia  down." 
But  failing  this  weapon,  her  defence  of  Sylvia  was, 
it  must  be  confessed,  somewhat  illogical. 

She  didn't  care,  she  declared,  whether  Henry  the 
Fourth  was  big  or  little,  or  how  he  was  dressed.  It 
was  very  clever  of  Sylvia  to  dream  such  a  nice  dream 
about  real  history  things,  and  Ralph  couldn't  dream 
such  a  dream  if  he  tried  ever  so  hard. 

Boys  are  aggravating  creatures,  are  they  not? 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE   SIX   PINLESS   BROOCHES. 

"  They  have  no  school,  no  governess,  and  do  just  what  they  please, 
No  little  worries  vex  the  birds  that  live  up  in  the  trees." 

The  Discontented  Starlings. 

Not  many  days  after  this  thrilling  adventure  of 
Sylvia's,  the  little  party  of  travellers  reached  their 
destination,  grandmother's  pretty  house  at  Chalet. 
They  were  of  course  delighted  to  be  there,  every- 
thing was  so  bright,  and  fresh,  and  comfortable,  and 
grandmother  herself  was  glad  to  be  again  settled 
down  at  what  to  her  now  represented  home.  But 
yet,  at  the  bottom  of  their  hearts,  the  children  were 
a  little  sorry  that  the  travelling  was  over.  True, 
Molly  declared  that,  though  their  passage  across  the 
Channel  had  really  been  a  very  good  one  as  these 
dreadful  experiences  go,  nothing  would  ever  induce 
her  to  repeat  the  experiment;  whatever  came  of  it, 
there  was  no  help  for  it,  live  and  die  in  France,  at 
least  on  this  side  of  the  water,  she  must. 

"  I  am  never  going  to  marry,  you  know,"  she 
observed  to  Sylvia,  "  so  for  that  it  doesn't  matter,  as 
of  course  I  couldn't  marry  a  Frenchman.  But  you 
will  come  over  to  see  me  sometimes  and  bring  your 
children,  and  when  I  get  very  old,  as  T  shall  have  no 
one  to  be  kind  to  me  you  see,  I  daresay  I  shall  get 

40 


THE   SIX   PINLESS   BROOCHES.  41 

some  one  to  let  me  be  their  concierge  like  the  old 
woman  in  our  lodge.  I  shall  be  veiy  poor  of  course, 
but  anything  is  better  than  crossing  the  sea  again." 

It  sounded  very  melancholy.  Sylvia's  mind  mis- 
gave her  that  perhaps  she  should  offer  to  stay  with 
Molly  "for  always"  on  this  side  of  the  Channel,  but 
she  did  not  feel  quite  sure  about  it.  And  the  odd 
thing  was  that  of  them  all  Molly  had  most  relished 
the  travelling,  and  was  most  eager  to  set  off  again. 
She  liked  the  fuss  and  bustle  of  it,  she  said;  she 
liked  the  feeling  of  not  being  obliged  to  do  any 
special  thing  at  any  special  hour,  for  regularity  and 
method  were  sore  crosses  to  Molly. 

"It  is  so  nice,"  she  said,  "to  feel  when  we  get  up 
in  the  morning  that  we  shall  be  out  of  one  bustle  into 
another  all  day,  and  nobody  to  say  '  You  will  be 
late  for  your  music,'  or,  '  Have  you  finished  your 
geography,  Molly  ? '  " 

"  Well,"  said  Sylvia,  "I  am  sure  you  haven't  much 
of  that  kind  of  thing  just  now,  Molly.  We  have 
far  less  lessons  than  we  had  at  home.  It  is  almost 
like  holidays." 

This  was  quite  true.  It  had  been  settled  between 
grandmother  and  their  father  that  for  the  first  two  or 
three  months  the  children  should  not  have  many 
lessons.  They  had  been  working  pretty  hard  for  a 
year  or  two  with  a  very  good,  but  rather  strict,  gov- 
erness, and  Sylvia,  at  no  time  exceedingly  strong, 
had  begun  to  look  a  little  fagged. 

"  They  will  have  plenty  to  use  their  brains  upon  at 
first,"    said   their   father.     "  The    novelty   of   every- 


42  "GRANDMOTHER  DEAR." 

thing,  the  different  manners  and  customs,  and  the 
complete  change  of  life,  all  that  will  be  enough  to 
occupy  and  interest  them,  and  I  don't  want  to  over- 
work them.     Let  them  run  Avild  for  a  little." 

It  sounded  very  reasonable,  but  grandmother  had 
her  doubts  about  it  all  the  same.  "  Running  wild  " 
in  her  experience  had  never  tended  to  making  little 
people  happier  or  more  contented. 

"  They  are  always  better  and  more  able  to  enjoy 
play-time  when  they  feel  that  they  have  done  some 
work  well  and  thoroughly,"  she  said  to  aunty. 
"  However,  we  must  wait  a  little.  If  I  am  not  much 
mistaken,  the  children  themselves  will  be  the  first  to 
tire  of  being  too  much  at  their  own  disposal." 

For  a  few  weeks  it  seemed  as  if  Mr.  Heriott  had 
been  right.  The  children  were  so  interested  and 
amused,  by  all  they  saw  that  it  really  seemed  as  if 
there  would  not  be  room  in  their  minds  for  anything 
else.  Every  time  they  went  out  a  walk  they  returned, 
Molly  especially,  in  raptures  with  some  new  marvel. 
The  bullocks  who  drew  the  carts,  soft-eyed,  clumsy 
creatures,  looking,  she  declared,  so  "sweet  and 
patient ;  "  the  endless  varieties  of  "  sisters,"  with  the 
wonderful  diversity  of  caps ;  the  chatter,  and  bustle, 
and  clatter  on  the  market-days ;  the  queer,  quaint 
figures  that  passed  their  gates  on  horse  and  pony 
back,  jogging  along  with  their  butter  and  cheese  and 
eggs  from  the  mountain  farms  —  all  and  everything 
was  interesting  and  marvellous  and  entertaining  to 
the  last  degree. 

"I   don't  know  how  other  children  find  time  to 


THE   SIX  PINLESS   BROOCHES.  43 

do  lessons  here,"  she  said  to  Sylvia  one  day.  "  It  is 
quite  difficult  to  remember  just  practising  and  French, 
and  think  what  lots  of  other  lessons  we  did  at  home, 
and  we  seemed  to  have  much  more  time." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sylvia,  "  and  do  you  know,  Molly,  I 
think  I  liked  it  better.  Just  now  at  the  end  of  the 
day  I  never  feel  as  if  I  had  done  anything  nicely  and 
settledly,  and  I  think  Ralph  feels  so  too.  He  is  going 
to  school  regularly  next  month,  every  day.  I  wish 
we  were  too." 

"  /  don't,"  said  Molly,  "  and  it  will  be  very  horrid 
of  you,  Sylvia,  if  you  go  putting  anything  like  that 
into  grandmother's  head.  There  now,  she  is  calling 
us,  and  I  am  not  nearly  ready.  Where  are  my 
gloves?     Oh,  I  cannot  find  them." 

"  What  did  you  do  with  them  yesterday  when  you 
came  in?"  said  Sylvia.  "You  ran  down  to  the  lodge 
to  see  the  soldiers  passing  ;  don't  you  remember,  just 
when  you  had  half  taken  off  your  things?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  I  believe  that  I  left  them  in  my 
other  jacket  pocket.  Yes,  here  they  are.  There  is 
grandmother  calling  again.  Do  run,  Sylvia,  and  tell 
her  I'm  just  coming." 

Molly  was  going  out  alone  with  grandmother  to- 
day, and  having  known  all  the  morning  at  what  time 
she  was  to  be  ready,  there  was  no  excuse  for  her 
tardiness. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  grandmother,  who,  tired  of 
waiting,  just  then  made  her  appearance  in  their  room, 
"what  have  you  been  doing?  And  you  don't  look 
half  dressed  now.     See,  your  collar  is  tumbling  off. 


44  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

I  must  really  tell  Marcelline  never  to  let  you  go  out 
without  looking  you  all  over." 

"  It  wasn't  Marcelline's  fault,  grandmother  dear," 
said  Molly.  "I'm  so  sorry.  I  dressed  in  such  a 
hurry." 

"  And  why  in  such  a  hurry  ?  "  asked  grandmother. 
"  This  is  not  a  day  on  which  you  have  any  lessons." 

"No-o,"  began  Molly;  but  a  new  thought  struck 
grandmother.  "  Oh,  by  the  by,  children,  where  are 
your  letters  for  your  father?  I  told  you  I  should 
take  them  to  the  post  myself,  you  remember,  as  I 
wasn't  sure  how  many  stamps  to  put  on  for  Cairo." 

Sylvia  looked  at  Molly,  Molly  looked  at  Sylvia. 
Neither  dared  look  at  grandmother.  Both  grew  very 
red.     At  last, 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  grandmother  dear." 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  dear  grandmother." 

"  We  are  both  so  sorry  ;  we  quite  forgot  we  were  to 
write  them  this  morning." 

Grandmother  looked  at  them  both  with  a  somewhat 
curious  expression. 

"You  both  forgot?"  she  said.  "Have  you  so 
much  to  do,  my  dear  little  girls,  that  you  haven't 
room  in  your  minds  to  remember  even  this  one 
thing?" 

"No,  grandmother,  it  isn't  that.  I  should  have 
remembered,"  said  Sylvia  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  don't  know,  grandmother  dear,"  replied  Molly, 
briskly.  "  My  mind  does  seem  very  full.  I  don't 
know  how  it  is,  I'm  sure." 

Grandmother  quietly  opened  a  drawer  in  a  chest 


"  WlIOSE    DRAWER    IS    THIS?"  —  p.  45. 


THE   SIX  PINLESS   BROOCHES.  45 

of  drawers  near  to  which  she  was  standing.  It  was 
very  neat.  The  different  articles  it  contained  were 
arranged  in  little  heaps ;  there  were  a  good  many 
things  in  it — -gloves,  scarfs,  handkerchiefs,  ribbons, 
collars,  but  there  seemed  plenty  of  room  for  all. 

"  Whose  drawer  is  this  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Mine,"  said  Sylvia. 

"Sylvia's,"  answered  Molly  in  the  same  breath, 
but  growing  very  red  as  she  saw  grandmother's  hand 
and  eyes  turning  in  the  direction  of  the  neighbour 
drawer  to  the  one  she  had  opened. 

"I  am  so  sorry,  grandmother  dear,"  she  exclaimed; 
"  I  wisli  you  wouldn't  look  at  mine  to-day.  I  was 
going  to  put  it  tidy,  but  I  hadn't  time." 

It  was  too  late.  Grandmother  had  already  opened 
the  drawer.  Ah,  dear !  what  a  revelation !  Gloves, 
handkerchiefs,  scarfs,  ribbons,  collars ;  collars,  rib- 
bons, scarfs,  handkerchiefs,  gloves,  in  a  sort  of  pot- 
pourri all  together,  or  as  if  waiting  to  be  beaten  up 
into  some  wonderful  new  kind  of  pudding !  Molly 
grew  redder  and  redder. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  grandmother.  "  This  is  your 
drawer,  I  suppose,  Molly.  How  is  it  it  is  so  much 
smaller  than  Sylvia's  ?  " 

"It  isn't,  grandmother  dear,"  said  Molly,  rather 
surprised  at  the  turn  of  the  conversation.  "It  is 
just  the  same  size  exactly." 

"  Then  how  is  it  you  have  so  many  more  things  to 
keep  in  it  than  Sylvia  ?  " 

"  I  haven't,  grandmother  dear,"  said  Molly.  "We 
have  just  exactly  the  same  of  everything." 


46  "  GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

"  And  yet  yours  looks  crowded  to  the  last  degree 
—  far  too  full  —  and  in  hers  there  seems  plenty  of 
room  for  everything." 

"  Because,  grandmother  dear,"  said  Molly,  opening 
wide  her  eyes,  "  hers  is  neat  and  mine  isn't." 

"Ah,"  said  grandmother.  "See  what  comes  of 
order.  Suppose  you  try  a  little  of  it  with  that  mind 
of  yours,  Molly,  which  you  say  seems  always  too 
full.  Do  you  know  I  strongly  suspect  that  if  every- 
thing in  it  were  very  neatly  arranged,  you  would 
find  a  very  great  deal  of  room  in  it ;  you  would  be 
surprised  to  find  how  little,  not  how  much,  it  con- 
tains." 

"Would  I,  grandmother  dear?"  said  Molly, 
looking  rather  mystified.  "  I  don't  quite  under- 
stand." 

"  Think  about  it  a  little,  and  then  I  fancy  you 
will  understand,"  said  grandmother.  "  But  we  really 
must  go  now,  or  I  shall  be  too  late  for  what  I  wanted 
to  do.  There  is  that  collar  of  yours  loose  again, 
Molly.  A  little  brooch  would  be  the  proper  thing 
to  fasten  it  with.     You  have  several." 

Poor  Molly  —  her  unlucky  star  was  in  the  ascen- 
dant this  afternoon  surely !  She  grew  very  red 
again,  as  she  answered  confusedly, 

"  Yes,  grandmother  dear." 

"  Well  then,  quick,  my  dear.  Put  on  the  brooch 
with  the  bit  of  coral  in  the  middle,  like  the  one  that 
Sylvia  has  on  now." 

"  Please,  grandmother  dear,  that  one's  pin's 
broken." 


THE   SIX   P1NLESS   BKOOCHES.  47 

"  The  pin's  broken !  Ah,  well,  we'll  take  it  to 
have  it  mended  then.  Where  is  it,  my  dear?  Give 
it  to  me." 

Molly  opened  the  unlucky  drawer,  and  after  a 
minute  or  two's  fumbling  extracted  from  its  depths 
a  little  brooch  which  she  handed  to  grandmother. 
Grandmother  looked  at  it. 

"  This  is  not  the  one,  Molly.  This  is  the  one 
aunty  sent  you  on  your  last  birthday,  with  the  little 
turquoises  round  it." 

Molly  turned  quickly. 

"  Oh  yes.  It  isn't  the  coral  one.  It  must  be  in 
the  drawer." 

Another  rummage  brought  forth  the  coral  one. 

"But  the  turquoise  one  has  no  pin  either  !  " 

"  No,  grandmother  dear.     It  broke  last  week." 

"  Then  it  too  must  go  to  be  mended,"  said  grand- 
mother with  decision.  "  See,  here  is  another  one  that 
will  do  for  to-day." 

She,  in  turn,  drew  forth  another  brooch.  A  little 
silver  one  this  time,  in  the  shape  of  a  bird  flying. 
But  as  she  was  handing  it  to  Molly,  "  Why,  this  one 
also  has  no  pin ! "  she  exclaimed. 

"  No,  grandmother  dear.  I  broke  it  the  day 
before  yesterday." 

Grandmother  laid  the  three  brooches  down  in  a  roAV. 

"How  many  brooches  in  all  have  you,  Molly?" 
she  said. 

"Six,  grandmother  dear.  They  are  just  the  same 
as  Sylvia  lias.     We  have  each  six." 

"  And  where  are  the  three  others  ?  " 


48  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

Molly  opened  a  little  box  that  stood  on  the  top  of 
the  chest  of  drawers. 

"  They're  here,"  she  said,  and  so  they  were,  poor 
things.  A  little  mosaic  brooch  set  in  silver,  a  mother- 
of-pearl  with  steel  border,  and  a  tortoise-shell  one  in  the 
shape  of  a  crescent ;  these  made  up  her  possessions. 

"  I  meant,"  she  added  naively,  "  I  meant  to  have 
put  them  all  in  this  box  as  I  broke  them,  but  I  left 
the  coral  one,  and  the  turquoise  one,  and  the  bird  in 
the  drawer  by  mistake." 

"As  you  broke  them 9"  repeated  grandmother. 
"  How  many  are  broken  then?" 

"  All,"  said  Molly.     "  I  mean  the  pins  are." 

It  was  quite  true.  There  lay  the  six  brooches  — 
brooches  indeed  no  longer  —  for  not  a  pin  was  there 
to  boast  of  among  them  ! 

"  Six  pinless  brooches  ! "  said  grandmother  drily, 
taking  them  up  one  after  another.  "Six  pinless 
brooches  —  the  property  of  one  careless  little  girl. 
Little  girls  are  changed  from  the  days  when  I  was 
young !  I  shall  take  these  six  brooches  to  be 
mended  at  once,  Molly,  but  what  I  shall  do  with 
them  when  they  are  mended  I  cannot  as  yet  say." 

She  put  them  all  in  the  little  box  from  which 
three  of  them  had  been  taken,  and  with  it  in  her 
hand  went  quietly  out  of  the  room.  Molly,  by  this 
time  almost  in  tears,  remained  behind  for  a  moment 
to  whisper  to  Sylvia, 

"  Is  grandmother  dreadfully  angry,  do  you  think, 
Sylvia  ?  I  am  so  frightened.  I  wish  I  wasn't  going 
out  with  her." 


THE   SIX   PINLESS   BROOCHES.  49 

"  Then  you  should  not  have  been  so  horribly 
careless.  I  never  knew  any  one  so  careless,"  said 
Sylvia,  in  rather  a  Job's  comforter  tone  of  voice. 
"  Of  course  you  must  tell  grandmother  how  sorry 
you  are,  and  how  ashamed  of  yourself,  and  ask  her  to 
forgive  3rou." 

"  Grandmother  dear,"  said  Molly,  her  irrepressible 
spirits  rising  again  when  she  found  herself  out  in  the 
pleasant  fresh  air,  sitting  opposite  grandmother  in  the 
carriage,  bowling  along  so  smoothly  —  grandmother 
having  made  no  further  allusion  to  the  unfortunate 
brooches  — "  Grandmother  dear,  I  am  so  sorry  and 
so  ashamed  of  myself.  Will  you  please  forgive 
me  ?  " 

"And  what  then,  my  dear?"  said  grandmother. 

"  I  will  try  to  be  careful ;  indeed  I  will.  I  will 
tell  you  how  it  is  I  break  them  so,  grandmother  dear. 
I  am  always  in  such  a  hurry,  and  brooches  are  so 
provoking  sometimes.  They  won't  go  in,  and  I  give 
them  a  push,  and  then  they  just  squock  across  in  a 
moment." 

"  They  just  iclial?"  said  grandmother. 

"  Squock  across,  grandmother  dear,"  said  Molly 
serenely.  "  It's  a  word  of  my  own.  I  have  a  good 
many  words  of  my  own  like  that.  But  I  won't  say 
them  if  you'd  rather  not.  I've  got  a  plan  in  my  head 
—  its  just  come  there  —  of  teaching  myself  to  be 
more  careful  with  brooches,  so  please,  grandmother 
dear,  do  tiy  me  again  when  the  brooches  are  mended. 
Of  course  I'll  pay  them  out  of  my  own  money." 

"Well,    we'll     see,"    said    grandmother,    as    the 


50  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

carriage  stopped   at   the   jeweller's   shop  where  the 
poor  brooches  were  to  be  doctored. 

During  the  next  two  days  there  was  a  decided 
improvement  in  Molly.  She  spent  a  great  part  of 
them  in  putting  her  drawers  and  other  possessions  in 
order,  and  was  actually  discovered  in  a  quiet  corner 
mending  a  pair  of  gloves.  She  was  not  once  late  for 
breakfast  or  dinner,  and,  notwithstanding  the  want  of 
the  brooches,  her  collars  retained  their  position  with 
unusual  docility.  All  these  symptoms  were  not  lost 
on  grandmother,  and  to  Molly's  great  satisfaction,  on 
the  evening  of  the  third  day  she  slipped  into  her 
hand  a  little  box  which  had  just  been  left  at  the 
door. 

"  The  brooches,  Molly,"  said  grandmother.  "  They 
have  cost  just  three  francs.  I  think  I  may  trust  you 
with  them,  may  I  not?" 

"  Oh  yes,  grandmother  dear.  I'm  sure  you  may," 
said  Molly,  radiant.  "  And  do  you  know  my  drawers 
are  just  beautiful.     I  wish  you  could  see  them." 

"  Never  fear,  my  dear.  I  shall  be  sure  to  take  a 
look  at  them  some  day  soon.  Shall  I  pay  them  an 
unexpected  visit  —  eh,  Molly  ?  " 

"  If  you  like,"  replied  the  little  girl  complacently. 
"  I've  quite  left  off  being  careless  and  untidy ;  it's 
so  much  nicer  to  be  careful  and  neat.  Good  night, 
grandmother  dear,  and  thank  you  so  much  for  teach- 
ing me  so  nicely." 

"  Good  night,  granddaughter  dear.  But  remem- 
ber, my  little  Molly,  that  Rome  was  not  built  in  a 
day." 


THE   SIX   PINLESS    BROOCHES.  51 

"  Of  course  not  —  how  could  a  big  town  be  built 
in  a  day?  Grandmother  dear,  what  funny  things 
you  do  say,"  said  Molly,  opening  wide  her  eyes. 

"  The  better  to  make  you  think,  my  dear,"  said 
grandmother,  in  a  gruff  voice  that  made  Molly  jump. 

"  Oh  dear !  how  you  do  frighten  me  when  you 
speak  like  that,  grandmother  dear,"  she  said  in  such 
a  piteous  tone  that  they  all  burst  out  laughing  at 
her. 

"  My  poor  little  girl,  it  is  a  shame  to  tease  you," 
said  grandmother,  drawing  her  towards  her.  "  To 
speak  plainly,  my  dear,  what  I  want  you  to  remem- 
ber is  this :  Faults  are  not  cured,  any  more  than  big 
towns  are  built,  in  a  day." 

"No,  I  know  they  are  not.  I'm  not  forgetting 
that.  I've,  been  making  a  lot  of  plans  for  making 
myself  remember  about  being  careful,"  said  Molly, 
nodding  her  head  sagaciously.  "  You'll  see,  grand- 
mother dear." 

And  off  to  bed  she  went. 

The  children  went  out  early  the  next  morning  for 
a  long  walk  in  the  country.  It  was  nearly  luncheon 
time  when  they  returned,  and  they  were  met  in  the 
hall  by  aunty,  who  told  them  to  run  upstairs  and 
take  off  their  things  quickly,  as  a  friend  of  their 
grandmother's  had  come  to  spend  the  day  with  her. 

"  And  make  yourselves  neat,  my  dears,"  she  said. 
"  Miss  Wren  is  a  particular  old  lady." 

Sylvia  was  down  in  the  drawing-room  in  five 
minutes,  hair  brushed,  hands  washed,  collar  straight. 
She  went  up  to  Miss  Wren  to  bu  introduced  to  her, 


52  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

and  then  sat  down  in  a  corner  by  the  window  with 
a  book.  Miss  Wren  was  very  deaf,  and  her  deafness 
had  the  effect,  as  she  could  not  in  the  least  hear  her 
own  voice,  of  making  her  shout  out  her  observations 
in  a  very  loud  tone,  sometimes  rather  embarrassing 
for  those  to  whom  they  were  addressed,  or,  still 
worse,  for  those  concerning  whom  they  were  made. 

"Nice  little  girl,"  she  remarked  to  grandmother, 
"  very  nice,  pretty-behaved  little  girl.  Rather  like 
poor  M'ary,  is  she  not  ?  Not  so  pretty !  Dear  me, 
what  a  pretty  girl  Mary  was  the  first  winter  you 
were  here,  twelve,  no,  let  me  see,  fourteen  years  ago ! 
Never  could  think  what  made  her  take  a  fancy  to 
that  solemn-looking  husband  of  hers." 

Grandmother  laid  her  hand  warningly  on  Miss 
Wren's  arm,  and  glanced  in  Sylvia's  direction,  and 
greatly  to  her  relief  just  then,  there  came  a  diversion 
in  the  shape  of  Molly.  Grandmother  happened  to 
be  asked  a  question  at  this  moment  by  a  servant 
who  just  came  into  the  room,  and  had  therefore 
turned  aside  for  an  instant  as  Molly  came  up  to 
speak  to  Miss  Wren.  Her  attention  was  quickly 
caught  again,  however,  by  the  old  lady's  remarks, 
delivered  as  usual  in  a  very  loud  voice. 

"  How  do  you  do,  my  dear  ?  And  what  is  your 
name  ?  Dear  me,  is  this  a  new  fashion  ?  Laura," 
to  aunty,  who  was  writing  a  note  at  the  side-table 
and  had  not  noticed  Molly's  entrance,  "  Laura,  my 
dear,  I  wonder  your  mother  allows  the  child  to  wear 
so  much  jewellery.  In  my  young  days  such  a  thing 
was  never  heard  of." 


THE   SIX  PINLESS   BROOCHES.  53 

Aunty  got  up  from  her  writing  at  this,  and  grand- 
mother turned  round  quickly.  What  could  Miss 
Wren  be  talking  about?  Was  her  sight,  as  well  as 
her  hearing,  failing  her?  Was  grandmother's  own 
sight,  hitherto  quite  to  be  depended  upon,  playing 
her  some  queer  trick  ?  There  stood  Molly,  serene  as 
usual,  with  —  it  took  grandmother  quite  a  little  while 
to  count  them  —  one,  two,  three,  yes,  six  brooches 
fastened  on  to  the  front  of  her  dress !  All  the  six 
invalid  brooches,  just  restored  to  health,  that  is  to 
say  pirn,  were  there  in  their  gloiy.  The  turquoise 
one  in  the  middle,  the  coral  and  the  tortoise-shell 
ones  at  each  side  of  it,  the  three  others,  the  silver 
bird,  the  mosaic  and  the  mother-of-pearl  arranged  in 
a  half-moon  below  them,  in  the  front  of  the  child's 
dress.  They  were  placed  with  the  greatest  neatness 
and  precision ;  it  must  have  cost  Molly  both  time 
and  trouble  to  put  each  in  the  right  spot. 

Grandmother  stared,  aunty  stared,  Miss  Wren 
looked  at  Molly  curiously. 

"  Odd  little  girl,"  she  remarked,  in  what  she  hon- 
estly believed  to  be  a  perfectly  inaudible  whisper, 
to  grandmother.  "  She  is  not  so  nice  as  the  other, 
not  so  like  poor  Mary.  But  I  wonder,  my  dear,  I 
really  do  wonder  at  your  allowing  her  to  wear  so 
much  jewellery.     In  our  young  days  —  " 

For  once  in  her  life  grandmother  was  almost  rude 
to  Miss  Wren.  She  interrupted  her  reminiscences 
of  "  our  young  days  "  by  turning  sharply  to  Molly. 

"  Molly,"  she  said,  "  go  up  to  your  room  at  once 
and  take  off  that  nonsense.     What  is  the  meaning  of 


54  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

it?  Do  you  intend  to  make  a  joke  of  what  you 
should  be  so  ashamed  of,  your  own  carelessness  ?  " 

Molly  stared  up  in  blank  surprise  and  distress. 

"  Grandmother  dear,"  she  said  confusedly.  "  It 
was  my  plan.     It  was  to  make  me  careful." 

Grandmother  felt  much  annoyed,  and  Molly's  self- 
defence  vexed  her  more. 

"  Go  up  to  your  room,"  she  repeated.  "  You  have 
vexed  me  very  much.  Either  you  intend  to  make  a 
joke  of  what  I  hoped  would  have  been  a  lesson  to 
you  for  all  your  life,  or  else,  Molly,  it  is  as  if  you  had 
not  all  your  wits.     Go  up  to  your  room  at  once." 

Molly  said  no  more.  Never  before  had  grand- 
mother and  aunty  looked  at  her  "like  that."  She 
turned  and  ran  out  of  the  room  and  up  to  her  own, 
and  throwing  herself  -down  on  the  bed  burst  into 
tears. 

"  I  thought  it  was  such  a  good  plan,"  she  sobbed. 
"  I  wanted  to  please  grandmother.  And  I  do  believe 
she  thinks  I  meant  to  mock  her.  Oh  dear !  oh  dear  ! 
oh  dear !  " 

Downstairs  the  luncheon  bell  rang,  and  they  all 
seated  themselves  at  table,  but  no  Molly  appeared. 

"Shall  I  run  up  and  tell  her  to  come  down?" 
suggested  Sylvia,  but  "  no,"  said  grandmother,  "  it  is 
better  not." 

But  grandmother's  heart  was  sore. 

"  I  shall  be  so  sorry  if  there  is  anything  of  sulki- 
ness  or  resentfulness  in  Molly,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  What  could  the  child  have  had  in  her  head  ?  " 


CHAPTER   V. 

molly's  plan. 

".  .  .  Such  a  plague  every  morning  with  buckling  shoes, 
gartering,  and  combing."  The  Twin  Rivals. 

Soon  after  luncheon  Miss  Wren  took  her  departure. 
Nothing  more  was  said  about  Molly  before  her,  but 
on  leaving  she  patted  Sylvia  approvingly  on  the 
back. 

"Nice  little  girl,"  she  said.  "Your  grandmother 
must  bring  you  to  see  me  some  day.  And  your 
sister  may  come,  too,  if  she  leaves  her  brooches  at 
home.     Young  people  in  my  young  days  —  " 

Aunty  saw  that  Sylvia  was  growing  very  red,  and 
looking  as  if  she  were  on  the  point  of  saying  some- 
thing ;  Molly's  queer  behaviour  had  made  her  ner- 
vous :  it  would  never  do  for  Sylvia,  too,  to  shock 
Miss  Wren's  notion  of  the  proprieties  by  bursting  out 
with  some  speech  in  Molly's  defence.  So  aunty 
interrupted  the  old  lady  by  some  remark  about  her 
shawl  not  being  thick  enough  for  the  drive,  which 
quite  distracted  her  attention. 

As  soon  as  she  had  gone,  grandmother  sent  Sylvia 
upstairs  to  look  for  Molly.  Sylvia  came  back  look- 
ing rather  alarmed.  No  Molly  was  there.  Where 
could  she  be?  Grandmother  began  to  feel  a  little 
uneasy. 

55 


56  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

"  She  is  nowhere  in  the  house,"  said  Sylvia. 
"  Marcelline  says  she  saw  her  go  out  about  half-an- 
hour  ago.  She  is  very  fond  of  the  little  wood  up  the 
road,  grandmother :  shall  I  go  and  look  for  her 
there  ?  " 

Grandmother  glanced  round.  "  Ralph,"  she  said. 
"Oh,  I  forgot,  he  will  not  be  home  till  four;"  for 
Ralph  had  begun  going  to  school  every  day.  "  Laura," 
she  went  on,  to  aunty,  "  put  on  your  hat  and  go  with 
Sylvia  to  find  the  poor  child." 

Sylvia's  face  brightened  at  this.  "  Then  you  are 
not  so  vexed  with  Molly  now,  grandmother,"  she 
said.  "  I  know  it  seemed  like  mocking  you,  but  I  am 
sure  she  didn't  mean  it  that  way." 

"  What  did  she  mean,  then,  do  you  think  ?  "  said 
grandmother. 

"  I  don't  quite  know,"  said  Sylvia.  "  It  was  a 
plan  of  her  own,  but  it  wasn't  anything  naughty  or 
rude,  I  am  sure." 

Aunty  and  Sylvia  went  off  to  the  little  wood,  as 
the  children  called  it  —  in  reality  a  very  small  plan- 
tation of  young  trees,  where  any  one  could  be  easily 
perceived,  especially  now  when  the  leaves  were  few 
and  far  between.  No,  there  was  no  Molly  there. 
Hurriedly,  aunty  and  Sylvia  retraced  their  steps. 

"  Let  us  go  round  by  the  lodge,"  said  aunty  —  they 
had  left  the  house  by  the  back  gate  —  "  and  see  if  old 
Marie  knows  anything  of  where  she  is." 

As  they  came  near  to  the  lodge  they  saw  old  Marie 
coming  to  meet  them. 

"  Is  Mademoiselle  looking1  for  the  little  demoiselle  ?  " 


molly's  plan.  57 

she  said  with  a  smile.  "Yes,  she  is  in  my  kitchen 
—  she  has  been  there  for  half-an-hour.  Poor  little 
lady,  she  was  in  trouble,  and  I  tried  to  console  her. 
But  the  dear  ladies  have  not  been  anxious  about  her? 
Ah  yes  !  But  how  sorry  I  am  !  I  knew  it  not,  or  I 
would  have  run  up  to  tell  Marcelline  where  she  was.'1 

"  Never  mind,  Marie,"  said  aunty.  "  If  we  had 
known  she  was  with  you,  we  should  have  been  quite 
satisfied.  Run  in,  Sylvia,  and  tell  Molly  to  come 
back  to  the  house  to  speak  to  your  grandmother." 

Sylvia  was  starting  forward,  but  Marie  touched 
her  arm. 

"  A  moment,  Mademoiselle  Sylvie,"  she  said,  — 
Sylvia  liked  to  be  called  "  Mademoiselle  Sylvie,"  it 
sounded  so  pretty  —  "a  moment.  The  little  sister 
has  fallen  asleep.  She  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  and 
she  had  been  crying  so  hard,  poor  darling.  Better 
not  wake  her  all  at  once." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  cottage,  and  they  fol- 
lowed her.  There,  as  she  had  said,  was  Molly,  fast 
asleep,  half  lying,  half  sitting,  by  the  rough  open  fire- 
place, her  head  on  a  little  wooden  stool  on  which 
Marie  had  placed  a  cushion,  her  long  fair  hair  falling- 
over  her  face  and  shoulders  —  little  sobs  from  time 
to  time  interrupting  her  soft,  regular  breathing. 

Sylvia's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  Poor  Molly,"  she  whispered  to  aunty,  "  she  must 
have  been  crying  so.  And  do  you  know,  aunty, 
when  Molly  does  cry  and  gets  really  unhappy,  it  is 
dreadful.  She  seems  so  careless,  you  know,  but  once 
she  does  care,  she  cares  more  than  any  one  I  know. 


58  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

And  look,  aunty."  She  pointed  to  a  little  parcel  on 
the  floor  at  Molly's  side.  A  parcel  very  much  done 
up  with  string,  and  an  unnecessary  amount  of  seal- 
ing-wax, and  fastened  to  the  parcel  a  little  note 
addressed  to  "  dear  grandmother." 

"  Shall  I  run  with  it  to  grandmother?  "  said  Sylvia ; 
and  aunty  nodding  permission,  off  she  set.  She  had 
not  far  to  go.  Coming  down  the  garden-path  she 
met  grandmother,  anxiously  looking  for  news  of 
Molly. 

"  She's  in  old  Marie's  kitchen,"  said  Sylvia,  breath- 
lessly, "  and  she's  fallen  fast  asleep.  She'd  been  cry- 
ing so,  old  Marie  said.  And  she  had  been  writing 
this  note  for  you,  grandmother,  and  doing  up  this 
parcel." 

Without  speaking,  grandmother  broke  the  very 
splotchy-looking  red  seal  and  read  the  note. 

"  My  dear,  dear  grandmother,"  it  began,  "  Please 
do  forgive  me.  I  send  you  all  my  brooches.  I  don't 
deserve  to  keep  them  for  vexing  you  so.  Only  I 
didn't,  oh,  indeed,  I  didn't  mean  to  mock  you,  dear 
grandmother.  It  is  that  that  I  can't  bear,  that  you 
should  think  so.  It  was  a  plan  I  had  made  to  teach 
me  to  be  careful,  only  I  know  it  was  silly  —  I  am 
always  thinking  of  silly  things,  but  oh,  believe  me,  I 
would  not  make  a  joke  of  your  teaching  me  to  be 
good.  —  Your  own  dearest  Molly." 

"  Poor  little  soul,"  said  grandmother.  "  I  wish  I 
had  not  been  so  hasty  with  her.     It  will  be  a  lesson 


molly's  plan.  59 

to  me ; "  and  noticing  that  at  this  Sylvia  looked  up 
in  surprise,  she  added,  "  Does  it  seem  strange  to 
you,  my  little  Sylvia,  that  an  old  woman  like  me 
should  talk  of  having  lessons?  It  is  true  all  the 
same  —  and  I  hope,  do  you  know,  dear?  —  I  hope 
that  up  to  the  very  last  of  my  life  I  shall  have  les- 
sons to  learn.  Or  rather  I  should  say  that  I  shall 
be  able  to  learn  them.  That  the  lessons  are  there  to 
be  learnt,  always  and  everywhere,  we  can  never 
doubt." 

"  But,"  said  Sylvia,  and  then  she  hesitated. 

"But  what,  dear?" 

"  I  can't  quite  say  what  I  mean,"  said  Sylvia. 
"But  it  is  something  like  this  —  I  thought  the  differ- 
ence  between  big  people  and  children  was  that  the 
big  people  had  learnt  their  lessons,  and  that  was  why 
they  could  help  us  with  ours.  I  know  what  kind  of 
lessons  you  mean  —  not  book  ones  —  but  being  kind 
and  good  and  all  things  like  that." 

"  Yes,"  said  grandmother,  "  but  to  these  lessons 
there  is  no  limit.  The  better  we  have  learnt  the 
early  ones,  the  more  clearly  we  see  those  still  before 
us,  like  climbing  up  mountains  and  seeing  the  peaks 
still  rising  in  front.  And  knowing  and  remembering 
the  difficulties  we  had  long  ago  when  we  first  began 
climbing,  we  can  help  and  advise  the  little  ones  who 
in  their  turn  are  at  the  outset  of  the  journey.  Only 
sometimes,  as  I  did  with  poor  Molly  this  morning, 
we  forget,  we  old  people  who  have  come  such  a  long 
way,  how  hard  the  first  climbing  is,  and  how  easily 
tired  and  discouraged  the  little  tender  feet  get." 


GO  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

Grandmother  gave  a  little  sigh. 

"  Dear  grandmother,"  said  Sylvia,  "  I  am  sure  you 
don't  forget.  But  those  people  who  haven't  learnt 
when  they  were  little,  they  can't  teach  others,  grand- 
mother, when  they  don't  know  themselves  ?  " 

"  Ah,  no,"  said  grandmother.  "  And  it  is  not 
many  who  have  the  power  or  the  determination  to 
learn  to-day  the  lessons  they  neglected  yesterday. 
We  all  feel  that,  Sylvia,  all  of  us.  Only  in  another 
way  we  may  get  good  out  of  that  too,  by  warning 
those  who  have  still  plenty  of  time  for  all.  But  let 
us  see  if  Molly  is  awake  yet." 

No,  she  was  still  fast  asleep.  But  when  grand- 
mother stooped  over  her  and  gently  raised  her  head, 
which  had  slipped  half  off  the  stool,  Molly  opened 
her  eyes,  and  gazed  up  at  grandmother  in  bewilder- 
ment. For  a  moment  or  two  she  could  not  remem- 
ber where  she  was ;  then  it  gradually  came  back  to 
her. 

"Grandmother,  will  }^ou  forgive  me?"  she  said. 
"I  wrote  a  note,  where  is  it?" — she  looked  about 
for  it  on  the  floor. 

"  I  have  got  it,  Molly,"  said  grandmother.  "  For- 
give you,  dear?  of  course  I  will  if  there  is  anything 
to  forgive.  But  tell  me  now  what  was  in  your  mind, 
Molly.     What  was  the  '  plan  '  ?  " 

"  I  thought,"  said  Molly,  sitting  up  and  shaking 
her  hair  out  of  her  eyes,  "I  thought,  grandmother 
dear,  that  it  would  teach  me  to  be  careful  and  neat 
and  not  hurried  in  dressing  if  I  wore  all  my  brooches 
every  day  for  a  good  while  —  a  month  perhaps.     For 


MOLLY  'S   PLAN.  61 

you  know  it  is  very  difficult  to  put  brooches  in  quite 
straight  and  neat,  not  to  break  the  pins.  It  has 
always  been  such  a  trouble  to  me  not  to  stick  them 
in,  in  a  hurry,  any  how,  and  that  was  how  I  broke 
so  many.  But  I'll  do  just  as  you  like  about  them. 
I'll  leave  off  wearing  them  at  all  if  you  would 
rather." 

She  looked  up  in  grandmother's  face,  her  own 
looking  so  white,  now  that  the  flush  of  sleep  had 
faded  from  it,  and  her  poor  eyelids  so  swollen,  that 
grandmother's  heart  was  quite  touched. 

"  My  poor  little  Molly,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  think 
that  will  be  necessary.  I  am  sure  you  will  try  to  be 
careful.  But  the  next  time  you  make  a  plan  for 
teaching  yourself  any  good  habit,  talk  it  over  with 
me  first,  will  you,  dear?" 

Molly  threw  her  arms  round  grandmother's  neck 
and  hugged  her,  and  old  Marie  looked  quite  pleased 
to  see  that  all  was  sunshine  again. 

Just  as  they  were  leaving  the  cottage  she  came 
forward  with  a  basketful  of  lovely  apples. 

"  They  came  only  this  morning,  Madame,"  she  said 
to  grandmother.  "  Might  she  send  them  up  to  the 
house?  The  little  young  ladies  would  find  them 
good." 

Grandmother  smiled. 

"  Thank  you,  Marie,"  she  said.  "  Are  they  the 
apples?  oli,  yes,  of  course.  I  see  they  are.  Is  there 
a  good  crop  this  year?" 

"Ah,  yes,  they  seem  always  good  now.  The 
storms  are  past,  it  seems  to  me,  Madame,  both  for 


62  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

me  and  my  tree.  But  a  few  years  now  and  they  will 
be  indeed  all  over  for  me.  'Tis  to-morrow  my  fete 
day,  Madame;  that  was  why  they  sent  the  apples. 
They  are  very  good  to  remember  the  old  woman  — 
my  grand-nephews  —  I  shall  to-morrow  be  seventy- 
five,  Madame." 

"  Seventy-five  !  "  repeated  grandmother.  "  Ah, 
well,  Marie,  I  am  not  so  very  far  behind  you,  though 
it  seems  as  if  I  were  growing  younger  lately  —  does  it 
not?  —  with  my  little  girls  and  my  boy  beside  me. 
You  must  come  up  to  see  us  to-morrow  that  we  may 
give  you  our  good  wishes.  Thank  you  for  the  beau- 
tiful apples.  Some  day  you  must  tell  the  children 
the  history  of  your  apple-tree,  Marie." 

Marie's  old  face  got  quite  red  with  pleasure. 
"  Ah,  but  Madame  is  too  kind,"  she  said.  "  A  stupid 
old  woman  like  me  to  be  asked  to  tell  her  little  stories 
—  but  we  shall  see  —  some  day,  perhaps.  So  that  the 
apples  taste  good,  old  Marie  will  be  pleased  indeed." 

"  What  is  the  story  of  Marie's  apple-tree,  grand- 
mother?" said  Sylvia,  as  they  walked  back  to  the 
house. 

"  She  must  tell  you  herself,"  said  grandmother. 
"  She  will  be  coming  up  to-morrow  morning  to  see 
us,  as  it  is  her  birthday,  and  you  must  ask  her  about 
it.     Poor  old  Marie." 

"  Has  she  been  a  long  time  with  you,  grandmother 
dear?"  said  Molly. 

"  Twelve  or  thirteen  years,  soon  after  we  first 
came  here.  She  was  in  great  trouble  then,  poor 
thing ;    but  she   will   tell  you   all   about   it.     She  is 


MOLLY  'S   PLAN.  63 

getting  old,  you  see,  and  old  people  are  always  fond 
of  talking,  they  say  —  like  your  poor  old  grandmother 
—  eh,  Molly?" 

"  Grandmother"  said  Molly,  flying  at  her  and 
hugging  her,  for  by  this  time  they  were  in  the 
drawing-room  again,  and  Molly's  spirits  had  quite 
revived. 

The  apples  turned  out  very  good  indeed.  Even 
Ralph,  who,  since  he  had  been  in  France,  had  grown 
so  exceedingly  "  John  Bull,"  that  he  could  hardly 
be  persuaded  to  praise  anything  not  English,  con- 
descended to  commend  them. 

"  No  wonder  they're  good,"  said  Molly,  as  she 
handed  him  his  second  one,  "  they're  fairy  apples 
I'm  sure,"  and  she  nodded  her  head  mysteriously. 

"  Fairy  rubbish,"  said  Ralph,  taking  a  good  bite 
of  the  apple's  rosy  cheek. 

"  Well,  they're  something  like  that,  anyway,"  per- 
sisted Molly.     "  Grandmother  said  so." 

"  /  said  so !  My  dear !  I  think  your  ears  have 
deceived  you." 

"  Well,  grandmother  dear,  I  know  you  didn't 
exactly  say  so,  but  what  you  said  made  me  think 
so,"  explained  Molly. 

"Not  quite  the  same  thing,"  said  grandmother. 
"  You  shall  hear  to-morrow  all  there  is  to  tell  —  a 
very  simple  little  story.  How  did  you  get  on  at 
school,  to-day,  Ralph?" 

"  Oh,  right  enough,"  said  Ralph.  "  Some  of  the 
fellows  are  nice  enough.  But  some  of  them  are 
awful    cads.      There's    one  —  he's  about  thirteen,  a 


t 


64  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

year  or  so  younger  than  I  —  his  name's  Prosper  some- 
thing or  other  —  I  actually  met  him  out  of  school 
in  the  street,  carrying  a  bundle  of  wood !  A  boy 
that  sits  next  me  in  the  class  !  "  he  added,  with  con- 
siderable disgust. 

"  Is  he  a  poor  boy  ?  "  asked  Sylvia. 

"  No  —  at  least  not  what  you'd  call  a  poor  boy. 
None  of  them  are  that.  But  he  got  precious  red,  I 
can  tell  you,  when  he  saw  me  — just  like  a  cad." 

"  Is  he  a  naughty  boy  ?  Does  he  not  do  his  les- 
sons well  ?  "  asked  grandmother. 

"  Oh  I  daresay  he  does ;  he  is  not  an  ill-natured 
fellow.  It  was  only  so  like  a  cad  to  go  carrying 
wood  about  like  that,"  said  Ralph. 

"  Ralph,"  said  grandmother  suddenly.  "  You  never 
saw  your  uncle  Jack,  of  course ;  has  your  father 
ever  told  you  about  him  ?  " 

Ralph's  face  lighted  up.  "  Uncle  Jack  who  was 
killed  in  the  Crimea?"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice  a 
little.     "  Yes,  papa  has  told  me  how  brave  he  was." 

"  Brave,  and  gentle,  and  good,"  said  grandmother, 
softly.  "  Some  day,  Ralph,  I  will  read  you  a  little 
adventure  of  his.  He  wrote  it  out  to  please  me  not 
long  before  his  death.  I  meant  to  have  sent  it  to 
one  of  the  magazines  for  boys,  but  somehow  I  have 
never  done  so." 

"  What  is  it  about,  grandmother  ?  What  is  it 
called?"  asked  the  children  all  together,  Molly  add- 
ing, ecstatically  clasping  her  hands,  "  If  you  tell 
us  stories,  grandmother,  it'll  be  perfect.'''' 

"What  is  the  little,  story  about?"  repeated  grand- 


molly's  plan.  65 

mother.  "  I  can  hardly  tell  you  what  it  is  about, 
without  telling  the  whole.  The  name  of  it  —  the 
name  your  uncle  gave  to  it,  was  '  That  Cad  Sawyer.'  " 
Ralph  said  nothing,  but  somehow  he  had  a  con- 
sciousness that  grandmother  did  not  agree  with  him 
that  carrying  a  bundle  of  wood  through  the  streets 
proved  that  "a  fellow"  must  certainly  be  a  cad. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE   APPLE-TREE   OF    STEFANOS. 

"And  age  recounts  the  feats  of  youth." 

Thomson. 

"  I  WAS  the  only  daughter  among  nine  children," 
began  old  Marie,  when  the  girls  and  Ralph  had  made 
her  sit  down  in  their  own  parlour,  and  they  had  all 
drunk  her  "good  health  and  many  happy  returns  " 
in  raspberry  vinegar  and  water,  and  then  teased  her 
till  she  consented  to  tell  them  her  story.  "  That  is 
to  say,  my  little  young  ladies  and  young  Monsieur, 
I  had  eight  brothers.  Not  all  my  own  brothers  :  my 
father  had  married  twice,  you  see.  And  always 
when  the  babies  came  they  wanted  a  little  girl,  for 
in  the  family  of  my  grandfather  too,  there  were  but 
three  boys,  my  father  and  his  two  brothers,  and 
never  a  sister.  And  so  one  can  imagine  how  I  was 
feted  when  I  came,  and  of  all  none  was  so  pleased  as 
the  old  'bon  papa,'  my  father's  father.  He  was  al- 
ready very  old:  in  our  family  we  have  been  prudent 
and  not  married  boy  and  girl,  as  so  many  do  now, 
and  wish  often  they  could  undo  it  again.  Before  he 
had  married  he  had  saved  and  laid  by,  and  for  his 
sons  there  was  something  for  each  when  they  too 
started  in  life.  For  my  father  there  was  the  cottage 
and  the  little  farm  at  Stefanos." 


THE   APPLE-TREE   OF    STE  PIANOS.  67 

"Where  is  Stefanos,  Marie?"  interrupted  Ralph. 

"  Not  so  far,  my  little  Monsieur ;  nine  kilometres 
perhaps  from  Chalet." 

"Nine  kilometres  ;  between  five  and  six  miles?  we 
must  have  passed  it  when  we  were  driving,"  said 
Ralph. 

"Without  doubt,"  replied  Marie.  "Well,  as  I 
was  saying,  my  father  had  the  paternal  house  at 
SteTanos  for  his  when  he  married,  and  my  uncles 
went  to  the  towns  and  did  for  themselves  with  their 
portions.  And  the  bon  papa  came,  of  course,  to  live 
with  us.  He  was  a  kind  old  man — I  remember  him 
well  —  and  he  must  have  had  need  of  patience  in  a 
household  of  eight  noisy  boys.  They  were  the  talk 
of  the  country,  such  fine  men,  and  I,  when  I  came, 
was  such  a  tiny  little  thing,  you  would  hardly  be- 
lieve there  could  be  a  child  so  small !  And  yet  there 
was  great  joy.  'We  have  a  girl  at  last,'  they  all 
cried,  and  as  for  the  bon  papa  he  knew  not  what  to 
do  for  pleasure. 

" '  I  shall  have  a  little  granddaughter  to  lead  me 
about  when  my  sight  is  gone,  I  shall  live  the  longer 
for  this  gift  of  thine,'  he  said  to  my  mother,  whom 
he  was  very  fond  of.  She  was  a  good  daughter-in- 
law  to  him.  l  She  shall  be  called  Marie,  shall  she 
not?  The  first  girl,  and  so  long  looked  for.  And, 
Eulalie,'  he  told  my  mother,  '  this  day,  the  day  of 
her  birth,  I  shall  plant  an  apple-tree,  a  seedling  of 
the  best  stock,  a  "  reinette,"  in  the  best  corner  of  the 
orchard,  and  it  shall  be  her  tree.  They  shall  grow 
together,  and  to  both  we  will  give  the  best  eare,  and 


08  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

as  the  one  prospers  the  other  will  prosper,  and  when 
trouble  comes  to  the  one,  the  other  will  droop  and 
fade  till  again  the  storms  have  passed  away.  The 
tree  shall  be  called  "le  pommier  de  la  petite."  : 

"  My  mother  smiled ;  she  thought  it  the  fancy  of 
the  old  man,  but  she  was  pleased  he  should  so  occupy 
himself  with  the  little  baby  girl.  And  he  did  as  he 
said  :  that  very  day  he  planted  the  apple-tree  in  the 
sunniest  corner  of  the  orchard.  And  he  gave  it 
the  best  of  his  care ;  it  was  watered  in  dry  weather, 
the  earth  about  its  roots  was  kept  loose,  and  enriched 
with  careful  manuring;  no  grass  or  weeds  were 
allowed  to  cling  about  it,  never  was  an  apple-tree 
better  tended." 

Marie  paused.  "  It  is  not  always  those  that  get 
the  most  care  that  do  the  best  in  this  world,"  she 
said,  with  a  sigh.  "  There  was  my  Louis,  our  eldest, 
I  thought  nothing  of  the  others  compared  with  him ! 
and  he  ran  away  to  sea  and  nearly  broke  my  heart." 

"  Did  he  ever  come  back  again  ?  "  asked  the  chil- 
dren.    Old  Marie  shook  her  head. 

"Never,"  she  said.  "But  I  got  a  letter  that  he 
had  got  the  cure*  somewhere  in  the  Amerique  du  sud 
—  I  know  not  where,  I  have  not  learnt  all  about  the 
geography  like  these  little  young  ladies  —  to  write 
for  him,  before  he  died  of  the  yellow  fever.  And  he 
asked  me  to  forgive  him  all  the  sorrows  he  had 
caused  me :  it  was  a  good  letter,  and  it  consoled  me 
much.  That  was  a  long  time  ago  ;  my  Louis  would 
have  been  in  the  fifties  by  now,  and  my  other  children 
were  obedient.     The  "•ood  God  sends  us  comfort." 


THE    APPLE-TREE    OF    STEFANOS.  69 

"  And  about  the  apple-tree,  tell  us  more,  Marie," 
said  Molly.     "  Did  it  do  well  ?  " 

"Indeed  yes.  Mademoiselle  can  judge,  are  not 
the  apples  good  ?  Ah,  yes,  it  did  well,  it  grew  and 
it  grew,  and  the  first  walk  I  could  take  with  the 
hand  of  the  bon  papa  was  to  the  apple-tree.  And 
the  first  words  I  could  say  were  '  Mi  pommier  a 
Malie.'  Before  many  years  there  were  apples,  not 
so  fine  at  the  first,  of  course,  but  every  year  they 
grew  finer  and  finer,  and  always  they  were  for  me. 
What  we  did  not  eat  were  sold,  and  the  money  given 
to  me  to  keep  for  the  Carnival,  when  the  bon  papa 
would  take  me  to  the  town  to  see  the  sights." 

"  And  did  you  grow  finer  and  finer  too,  Marie  ?  " 
said  Sylvia. 

Marie  smiled. 

"I  grew  strong  and  tall,  Mademoiselle,"  she  said. 
"  As  for  more  than  that  it  is  not  for  me  to  say.  But 
they  all  thought  so,  the  father  and  mother  and  the 
eight  brothers,  and  the  bon  papa,  of  course,  most  of 
all.  And  so  you  see,  Mademoiselle,  the  end  was  I 
got  spoilt." 

"But  the  apple-tree  didn't?" 

"  No,  the  apple-tree  did  its  work  well.  Only  I  was 
forgetting  to  tell  you  there  came  a  bad  year.  Every- 
thing was  bad  —  the  cows  died,  the  harvest  was  poor, 
the  fruit  failed.  To  the  last,  the  bon  papa  hoped 
that  '  le  pommier  de  la  petite '  would  do  well,  though 
nothing  else  did,  but  it  was  not  so.  There  was  a 
good  show  of  blossom,  but  when  it  came  to  the 
apples,    every    one    was    blighted.      And  the   strange 


70  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

thing  was,  my  little  young  ladies  and  little  Monsieur, 
that  that  was  the  year  the  small-pox  came  —  ah,  it 
was  a  dreadful  year  !  —  and  we  all  caught  it." 

"All?"  exclaimed  Sylvia. 

"Yes,  indeed,  Mademoiselle — all  the  seven,  that 
is  to  say,  that  were  at  home.  I  cannot  remember  it 
well  —  I  was  myself  too  ill,  but  we  all  had  it.  I  was 
the  worst,  and  they  thought  I  would  die.  It  was  not 
the  disease  itself,  but  the  weakness  after  that  nearly 
killed  me.  And  the  poor  bon  papa  would  shake  his 
head  and  say  he  might  have  known  what  was  com- 
ing, by  the  apple-tree.  And  my  mother  would  con- 
sole him  —  she,  poor  thing,  who  so  much  needed 
consoling  herself — by  saying,  'Come,  now,  bon  papa, 
the  apple-tree  lives  still,  and  doubtless  by  next  year 
it  will  again  be  covered  with  beautiful  fruit.  Let  us 
hope  well  that  our  little  one  will  also  recover.'  And 
little  by  little  I  began  to  mend  —  the  mothers  words 
came  true  — by  the  spring  time  I  was  as  well  as  ever 
again,  and  the  six  brothers  too.  All  of  us  recovered ; 
we  were  strong,  you  see,  very  strong.  And  after  that 
I  grew  so  fast  —  soon  I  seemed  quite  a  young  woman." 

"  And  did  the  small-pox  not  spoil  your  beauty, 
Marie  ?  "  inquired  Sylvia  with  some  little  hesitation. 
It  was  impossible  to  tell  from  the  old  woman's  face 
now  whether  the  terrible  visitor  had  left  its  traces 
or  not ;  she  was  so  brown  and  weather  Avorn  —  her 
skin  so  dried  and  wrinkled  —  only  the  eyes  were  still 
fine,  dark,  bright  and  keen,  yet  with  the  soft  far- 
away look  too,  so  beautiful  in  an  old  face. 

"No,  Mademoiselle,"  Marie  replied  na'ivuly,  "that 


THE    APPLE-TREE    OF    STEFANOS.  71 

was  the  curious  part  of  it.  There  were  some,  my 
neighbour  Diclier  for  one,  the  son  of  the  farmer 
Larreya  —  " 

"  Why,  Marie,  that's  your  name,"  interrupted 
Molly.  "  '  Marie  Larreya,'  —  I  wrote  it  down  the 
other  day  because  I  thought  it  such  a  funny  name 
when  grandmother  told  it  me." 

"  Well,  well,  Molly,"  said  Sylvia,  "  there  are  often 
many  people  of  the  same  name  in  a  neighbourhood. 
Do  let  Marie  tell  her  own  story." 

"  As  I  was  saying,"  continued  Marie,  "  many  peo- 
ple said  I  had  got  prettier  with  being  ill.  I  can't 
tell  if  it  was  true,  but  I  was  thankful  not  to  be 
marked :  you  see  the  illness  itself  was  not  so  bad 
with  me  as  the  weakness  after.  But  I  got  quite  well 
again,  and  that  was  the  summer  I  was  sixteen.  My 
eldest  brother  was  married  that  summer,  —  he  was  one 
of  the  two  sons  of  my  father's  first  marriage,  and  he 
had  been  away  for  already  some  time  from  the  paternal 
house.  He  married  a  young  girl  from  Chalet ;  and 
ah,  but  we  danced  well  at  the  marriage  !  I  danced 
most  of  all  the  girls  —  there  was  my  old  friend 
Didier  who  wanted  every  dance,  and  glad  enough 
I  would  have  been  to  dance  with  him  —  so  tall  and 
straight  he  was  —  but  for  some  new  friends  I  made 
that  day.  They  were  the  cousins  of  my  brother's 
young  wife  —  two  of  them  from  Chalet,  one  a  maid 
in  a  family  from  Paris,  and  with  them  there  came  a 
young  man  who  was  a  servant  in  the  same  family. 
They  were  pleasant,  good-natured  girls,  and  for  the 
young  man, there  was  no  harm  in  him;  but  their  talk 


72  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

quite  turned  my  silly  head.  They  talked  of  Chalet 
and  how  grandly  the  ladies  there  were  dressed,  and 
still  more  of  Paris  —  the  two  who  knew  it  —  till  I 
felt  quite  ashamed  of  being  only  a  country  girl,  and 
the  fete-day  costume  I  had  put  on  in  the  morning  so 
proudly,  I  wished  I  could  tear  off  and  dress  like  my 
new  friends.  And  when  Didier  came  again  to  ask 
me  to  dance,  I  pushed  him  away  and  told  him  he 
tired  me  asking  me  so  often.  Poor  Didier !  I 
remember  so  well  how  he  looked  —  as  if  he  could 
not  understand  me  —  like  our  great  sheep-dog,  that 
would  stare  up  with  his  soft  sad  eyes  if  ever  I  spoke 
roughly  to  him  ! 

"  That  day  was  the  beginning  of  much  trouble  for 
me.  I  got  in  the  way  of  going  to  Chalet  whenever 
I  could  get  leave,  to  see  my  new  friends,  who  were 
always  full  of  some  plan  to  amuse  themselves  and  me, 
and  my  home  where  I  had  been  so  happy  I  seemed  no 
longer  to  care  for.  I  must  have  grieved  them  all,  but 
I  thought  not  of  it  —  my  head  was  quite  turned. 

"  One  day  I  was  setting  off  for  Chalet  to  sjjend 
the  afternoon,  when,  just  as  I  was  leaving,  the  bon 
papa  stopped  me. 

" '  Here,  my  child,'  he  said,  holding  out  to  me  an 
apple ;  '  this  is  the  first  of  this  season's  on  thy  pom- 
mier.  I  gathered  it  this  morning  —  see,  it  is  quite 
ripe  —  it  was  on  the  sunny  side.  Take  it;  thou 
mayest,  perhaps,  feel  tired  on  the  way.' 

"  I  took  it  carelessly. 

" '  Thanks,  bon  papa,'  I  said,  as  I  put  it  in  my 
pocket.     Bon  papa  looked  at  me  sadly. 


THE    APPLE-TREE    OF    STEFAXOS.  73 

'"It  is  never  now  as  it  used  to  be,'  he  said.  'My 
little  girl  has  never  a  moment  now  to  spare  for  the 
poor  old  man.  And  she  would  even  wish  to  leave 
him  for  ever ;  for  thou  knowest  well,  my  child,  I 
could  not  live  with  the  thought  of  thee  so  far  away. 
When  my  little  girl  returned  she  would  find  no  old 
grandfather,  he  would  be  lying  in  the  cold  churchyard.' 

"  The  poor  old  man  held  out  his  arms  to  me,  but 
I  turned  away.  I  saw  that  his  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears  —  he  was  growing  so  feeble  now  —  and  I  saw, 
too,  that  my  mother,  who  was  ironing  at  the  table  — 
work  in  which  I  could  have  helped  her — stooped  to 
wipe  away  a  tear  with  the  corner  of  her  apron.  But 
I  did  not  care  —  my  heart  was  hard,  my  little  young- 
ladies  and  young  Monsieur  —  my  heart  was  hard,  and 
I  would  not  listen  to  the  voices  that  were  speaking 
in  my  conscience. 

" '  It  is  too  bad,'  I  said,  '  that  the  chances  of  one's 
life  should  be  spoilt  for  such  fancies ; '  and  I  went 
quickly  out  of  the  cottage  and  shut  the  door.  But 
as  I  went  I  saw  my  poor  bon  papa  lift  his  head,  which 
he  had  bent  down  on  his  hands,  and  say  to  my 
mother, 

" '  There  will  be  no  more  apples  this  year  on  the 
pommier  de  la  petite.  Thou  wilt  see,  my  daughter, 
the  fortune  of  the  tree  will  leave  it.' 

"  I  heard  my  mother  say  something  meant  to 
comfort  him,  but  I  only  hurried  away  the  faster. 

"What  my  grandfather  meant  about  my  wishing 
to  leave  him  was  this,  —  my  new  friends  had  put  it 
in  my  head  to  ask  my  parents  to  consent  to  my  going 


74  "  GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

to  Paris  with  the  family  in  which  the  two  that  I 
told  you  of  were  maid  and  valet.  They  had  spoken 
of  me  to  their  lady;  she  knew  I  had  not  much  expe- 
rience, and  had  never  left  home.  She  did  not  care 
for  that,  she  said.  She  wanted  a  nice  pretty  girl  to 
amuse  her  little  boy,  and  walk  out  with  him.  And 
of  course  the  young  man,  the  valet,  told  me  he  knew 
she  could  not  find  a  girl  so  pretty  as  I  anywhere  !  I 
would  find  when  I  got  to  Paris,  he  said,  how  I  would 
be  admired,  and  then  I  would  rejoice  that  I  had  not 
stayed  in  my  stupid  little  village,  where  it  mattered 
not  if  one  had  a  pretty  face  or  not.  I  had  come  home 
quite  full  of  the  idea — quite  confident  that,  as  I  had 
always  done  exactly  what  I  wished,  I  would  meet 
with  no  difficulty.  But  to  my  astonishment,  at 
the  paternal  house,  one  would  not  hear  of  such  a 
thing ! 

"  '  To  leave  us  —  thou,  our  only  girl  —  to  go  away 
to  that  great  Paris,  where  one  is  so  wicked  —  where 
none  would  guard  thee  or  care  for  thee?  No,  it  is 
not  to  be  thought  of,'  said  my  father  with  decision ; 
and  though  he  was  a  quiet  man  who  seldom  inter- 
fered in  the  affairs  of  the  house,  I  knew  well  that 
once  that  he  had  said  a  thing  with  decision,  it  was 
done  with  —  it  would  be  so. 

"  And  my  mother  said  gently, 

"  '  How  could'st  thou  ask  such  a  thing,  Marie  ? ' 

"And  the  bon  papa  looked  at  me  with  sad  re- 
proach ;  that  was  worse  than  all. 

"  So  this  day  —  the  day  that  bon  papa  had  given 
me  the   first  apple  of  the  season  —  I  was  to  go  to 


THE    APPLE-TKEE    OF    STEFANOS.  75 

Chalet  to  tell  my  friends  it  could  not  be.  I  felt  very- 
cross  and  angry  all  the  way  there. 

" '  What  have  I  done,'  I  said  to  n^self ,  '  to  be 
looked  at  as  if  I  were  wicked  and  ungrateful  ?  Why 
should  my  life  be  given  up  to  the  fancies  of  a  foolish 
old  man  like  bon  papa  ? ' 

"  And  when  I  got  to  Chalet  and  told  my  friends 
it  was  not  to  be,  their  regret  and  their  disappoint- 
ment made  me  still  more  displeased. 

" '  It  is  too  much,'  they  all  said,  '  that  you  should 
be  treated  still  like  a  bebe  —  you  so  tall  and  womanly 
that  one  might  think  you  twenty.' 

" '  And  if  I  were  thee,  Marie,'  said  one,  '  I  would 
go  all  the  same.  They  would  soon  forgive  thee 
when  they  found  how  well  things  would  go  with 
thee  at  Paris.    How  much  money  thou  wouldst  gain  ! ' 

"  '  But  how  could  I  go  ?  '  I  asked. 

"  Then  they  all  talked  together  and  made  a  plan. 
The  family  was  to  leave  Chalet  the  beginning  of  the 
week  following,  sooner  than  they  had  expected.  I 
should  ask  leave  from  my  mother  to  come  again  to 
say  good-bye  the  same  morning  that  they  were  to 
start,  and  instead  of  returning  to  Stefanos  I  should 
start  with  them  for  Paris.  I  had  already  seen  the 
lad}-,  a  young  creature  who,  pleased  with  my  appear- 
ance, concerned  herself  little  about  anything  else, 
and  my  friends  would  tell  her  I  had  accepted  her 
offer.  And  for  my  clothes,  I  was  to  pack  them  up 
the  evening  before,  and  carry  the  parcel  to  a  point  on 
the  road  where  the  young  man  would  meet  me. 
They   would  not  be   many,  for  my  pretty  fete    cos- 


76  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

tumes,  the  dress  of  the  country,  which  were  my  best 
possessions,  would  be  of  no  use  in  Paris. 

" '  And  once  there,'  said  my  friend,  '  we  will  dress 
thee  as  thou  should'st  be  dressed.  For  the  journey 
I  can  lend  thee  a  hat.  Thou  could'st  not  travel  with 
that  ridiculous  foulard  on  thy  head,  hiding  all  thy 
pretty  hair.' 

"  I  remember  there  was  a  looking-glass  in  the 
room,  and  as  Odette  —  that  was  the  girl's  name  — 
said  this,  I  glanced  at  myself.  My  poor  foulard,  I 
had  thought  it  so  pretty.  It  had  been  the  '  nouvel 
an '  of  the  bon  papa  !  But  I  would  not  listen  to  the 
voice  of  my  heart.  I  set  out  on  my  return  home 
quite  determined  to  carry  out  my  own  way. 

"  It  was  such  a  hot  walk  that  day.  How  well  I 
remember  it !  my  little  young  ladies  and  little  Mon- 
sieur, you  would  hardly  believe  how  one  can  re- 
member things  of  fifty  years  ago  and  more,  as  if  they 
were  yesterday  when  one  is  old  as  I  am  !  The  weather 
had  been  very  hot,  and  now  the  clouds  looked  black 
and  threatening. 

" '  We  shall  have  thunder,'  I  said  to  myself,  and 
I  tried  to  walk  faster,  but  I  was  tired,  and  oh,  so  hot 
and  thirsty.  I  put  my  hand  in  my  pocket  and  drew 
out  the  apple,  which  I  had  forgotten.  How  refresh- 
ing it  was ! 

" '  Poor  bon  papa,'  I  said  to  myself.  '  I  wish  he 
would  not  be  so  exacting.  I  do  not  wish  to  make 
him  unhappy,  but  what  can  I  do  ?  One  cannot  be 
all  one's  life  a  little  child.' 

"  Still,  softer  thoughts  were  coming  into  my  mind. 


THE   APPLE-THEE   OF   STEFANOS.  77 

I  began  to  wish  I  had  not  given  my  decision,  that  I 
had  said  I  would  think  it  over.  Paris  was  so  far 
away ;  at  home  they  might  all  be  dead  before  I  could 
hear,  the  poor  bon  papa  above  all ;  it  was  true  he 
was  getting  very  old. 

"  Just  then,  at  a  turn  in  the  road,  I  found  myself 
in  face  of  Didier,  Didier  Larreya.  He  was  walking 
fast,  his  face  looked  stern  and  troubled.  He  stopped 
suddenly  on  seeing  me  ;  it  was  not  often  of  late  that 
we  had  spoken  to  each  other.  He  had  not  looked 
with  favour  on  my  new  friends,  who  on  their  side 
had  made  fun  of  him  (though  I  had  noticed  the  day 
of  the  wedding  that  Odette  had  been  very  ready  to 
dance  with  him  whenever  he  had  asked  her),  and 
I  had  said  to  my  silly  self  that  he  was  jealous.  So 
just  now  I  would  have  passed  him,  but  he  stopped 
me. 

"  '  It  is  going  to  thunder,  Marie,'  he  said.  '  We 
shall  have  a  terrible  storm.  I  came  to  meet  thee, 
to  tell  thee  to  shelter  at .  our  house ;  I  told  thy 
mother  I  would  do  so.  I  have  just  been  to  thy 
house.' 

"  I  felt  angry  for  no  reason.  I  did  not  like  his 
watching  me,  and  going  to  the  house  to  be  told  of 
all  my  doings.     I  resented  his  saying  'thou'  to  me. 

" '  I  thank  you,  Monsieur  Didier,'  I  said  stiffly, 
'  I  can  take  care  of  myself.  I  have  no  wish  to  rest 
at  your  house.  I  prefer  to  go  home,'  and  I  turned 
to  walk  on. 

"  Didier  looked  at  me,  and  the  look  in  his  eyes 
was  very  sad. 


78  "  GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

"  '  Then  it  is  true,'  he  said. 

"  '  What  is  true  ?  ' 

" '  That  you  are  so  changed '  —  he  did  not  say 
'  thou  '  — '  that  you  wish  to  go  away  and  leave  us  all. 
The  poor  bon  papa  is  right.' 

"  '  What  has  bon  papa  been  saying  ?  '  I  cried,  more 
and  more  angry.  '  What  is  it  to  you  what  I  do  ? 
Attend  to  your  own  affairs,  I  beg  you,  Monsieur 
Didier  Larreya,  and  leave  me  mine.' 

"  Didier  stopped,  and  before  I  knew  what  he  was 
doing,  took  both  my  hands  in  his. 

"  '  Listen,  Marie,'  he  said.  '  You  must.  You  are 
scarcely  more  than  a  child,  and  I  was  glad  for  you 
to  be  so.  It  would  not  be  me  that  would  wish  to 
see  you  all  wise,  all  settled  down  like  an  old  woman 
at  your  age.  But  you  force  me  to  say  what  I  had 
not  wished  to  say  yet  for  a  long  time.  I  am  older 
than  you,  eight  years  older,  and  I  know  my  own 
mind.  Marie,  you  know  how  I  care  for  you,  how  I 
have  always  cared  for  you,  you  know  what  I  hope 
may  be  some  day?  Has  my  voice  no  weight  with 
you  ?  I  do  not  ask  you  now  to  say  you  care  for  me, 
you  are  too  3^0 ung,  but  I  thought  you  would  perhaps 
learn,  but  to  think  of  you  going  away  to  Paris?  Oh, 
my  little  Marie,  you  would  never  return  to  us  the 
same ! ' 

"  He  stopped,  and  for  a  moment  I  stood  still  with- 
out speaking.  In  spite  of  myself  he  made  me  listen. 
He  seemed  to  have  guessed  that  though  my  parents 
had  forbidden  it,  I  had  not  yet  given  up  the  thoughts 
of  going  away,  and  in  spite  of  my  silly  pride  and  1113^ 


THE   APPLE-TREE   OF    STEFANOS.  79 

temper  I  was  much  touched  by  what  he  said,  and  the 
thought  that  if  I  went  away  he  would  leave  off  car- 
ing for  me  came  to  me  like  a  great  shock.  I  had 
never  thought  of  it  like  that ;  I  had  always  fancied 
that  whatever  I  did  I  could  keep  Didier  devoted  to 
me ;  I  had  amused  myself  with  picturing  my  return 
from  Paris  quite  a  grand  lady,  and  how  I  would  pre- 
tend to  be  changed  to  Didier,  just  to  tease  him.  But 
now  something  in  his  manner  showed  me  this  would 
not  do ;  if  I  defied  him  and  my  friends  now,  he 
would  no  longer  care  for  me.  Yet  —  would  you 
believe  it,  my  little  young  ladies  and  young  Mon- 
sieur ?  —  my  naughty  pride  still  kept  me  back.  I 
turned  from  Didier  in  a  rage,  and  pulled  away  my 
hands. 

"'I  wish  none  of  your  advice  or  interference,'  I 
said.     '  I  shall  please  myself  in  my  affairs.' 

"  I  hurried  away ;  he  did  not  attempt  to  stop  me, 
but  stood  there  for  a  moment  watching  me. 

" '  Good-bye,  Marie,'  he  said,  and  then  he  called 
after  me,  '  Beware  of  the  storm.' 

"  I  had  still  two  miles  to  go.  I  hurried  on,  passing 
the  Larreyas'  farm,  and  just  a  minute  or  two  after 
that  the  storm  began.  I  heard  it  come  grumbling 
up,  as  if  out  of  the  heart  of  the  mountains  at  first, 
and  then  it  seemed  to  rise  higher  and  higher.  I  was 
not  frightened,  but  yet  I  saw  it  was  going  to  be  a 
great  storm  —  you  do  not  know,  my  young  ladies, 
what  storms  we  have  here  sometimes  —  and  I  was  so 
hot  and  so  tired,  and  when  the  anger  began  to  pass 
away  I   felt  so   miserable.     I  could  not  bear  to  go 


80  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

home  and  see  them  all  with  the  knowledge  in  my 
heart  of  what  I  intended  to  do.  When  I  got  near  to 
the  orchard,  which  was  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  house,  I  felt,  with  all  my  feelings  together, 
as  if  I  could  go  no  farther.  The  storm  seemed  to  be 
passing  over  —  for  some  minutes  there  had  been  no 
lightning  or  thunder. 

"  '  Perhaps  after  all  it  will  only  skirt  round  about 
us,'  I  said.  And  as  I  thought  this  I  entered  the 
orchard  and  sat  down  on  my  own  seat,  a  little  bench 
that  —  now  many  years  ago  —  the  bon  papa  had 
placed  for  me  with  his  own  hands  beside  my  pom- 
mier. 

"  I  was  so  tired  and  so  hot  and  so  unhappy,  I  sat 
and  cried. 

"  I  wish  I  had  not  said  I  would  go,'  I  thought. 
'  Now  if  I  change  one  will  mock  so  at  me.' 

"  I  leaned  my  head  against  the  trunk  of  my  tree. 
I  had  forgotten  about  the  storm.  Suddenly,  more 
suddenly  than  I  can  tell,  there  came  a  fearful  flash 
of  lightning —  all  about  me  seemed  for  a  moment  on 
fire  —  then  the  dreadful  boom  of  the  thunder  as  if  it 
would  shake  the  earth  itself  to  pieces,  and  a  tearing 
crashing  sound  like  none  I  had  ever  heard  before.  I 
screamed  and  threw  myself  on  the  ground,  covering 
my  eyes.  For  a  moment  I  thought  I  was  killed  — 
that  a  punishment  had  come  to  me  for  my  disobedi- 
ence. '  Oh !  I  will  not  go  away.  I  will  do  what  you 
all  wish,'  I  called  out,  as  if  my  parents  could  hear 
me.  'lion  papa,  forgive  me.  Thy  little  girl  wishes 
no  longer  to  leave  thee;'  but  no  one  answered,  and 


Under  the  Apple-tree.  —  p.  80. 


THE   APPLE-TREE   OF    STEFANOS.  81 

I  lay  there  in  terror.  Gradually  I  grew  calmer  — 
after  that  fearful  crash  the  thunder  claps  seemed  to 
grow  less  violent.  I  looked  up  at  last.  What  did  I 
see  ?  The  tree  next  to  my  pommier  —  the  one  but 
a  yard  or  two  from  my  bench  —  stood  black  and 
charred  as  if  the  burning  hand  of  a  great  giant  had 
grasped  it ;  already  some  of  its  branches  strewed  the 
ground.  And  my  pommier  had  not  altogether  es- 
caped; one  branch  had  been  struck — the  very  branch 
on  the  sunny  side  from  which  bon  papa  had  picked 
the  apple,  as  he  afterwards  showed  me  !  That  my 
life  had  been  spared  was  little  less  than  a  miracle." 
Marie  paused. 

"I  left  the  orchard,  my  little  young  ladies  and 
young  Monsieur,"  she  went  on  after  a  moment  or 
two,  "  a  very  different  girl  from  the  one  that  had 
entered  it.  I  went  straight  to  the  house,  and  con- 
fessed all  —  my  naughty  intention  of  leaving  them 
all,  my  discontent  and  pride,  and  all  my  bad  feelings. 
And  they  forgave  me  —  the  good  people  —  they  for- 
gave me  all,  and  bon  papa  took  me  in  his  arms  and 
blessed  me,  and  I  promised  him  not  to  leave  him 
while  he  lived.  Nor  did  I  —  it  was  not  so  long  —  he 
died  the  next  year,  the  dear  old  man !  What  would 
my  feelings  have  been  had  I  been  away  in  Paris! " 

Old  as  she  was,  Marie  stopped  to  wipe  away  a  tear. 
"  It  is  nearly  sixty  years  ago,  yet  still  the  tears  come 
when  I  think  of  it,"  she  said.  "  He  would  not  know 
me  now  if  he  saw  me,  the  dear  bon  papa,"  she  added. 
"I  am  as  old  as  he  was  then!  How  it  will  be  in 
heaven  I  wonder  often  —  for  friends  so  changed  to 


82  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

meet  again?  But  that  we  must  leave  to  the  good 
God ;  without  doubt  He  will  arrange  it  all." 

"  And  Diclier,  Marie  ? "  said  Sylvia,  after  a  little 
pause.     "  Did  you  also  make  friends  with  him  ?  " 

Marie  smiled,  and  underneath  her  funny  old  brown 
wrinkled  skin  I  almost  think  she  blushed  a  little. 

"  Ah  yes,  Mademoiselle,"  she  said.  "  That  goes 
without  saying.  Ah  yes  —  Didier  was  not  slow  to 
make  friends  again  —  and  though  we  said  nothing 
about  it  for  a  long  time,  not  till  I  was  in  the  twen- 
ties, it  came  all  as  he  wished  in  the  end.  And  a 
good  husband  he  made  me." 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Molly,  "  I  see  —  then  that's  how  your 
name  is  'Larreya'  too,  Marie." 

They  all  laughed  at  her. 

"  But  grandmother  said  you  had  many  more 
troubles,  Marie,"  said  Sylvia.  "  Long  after,  when 
first  she  knew  you.     She  said  you  would  tell  us." 

"  Ah  yes,  that  is  because  the  dear  lady  wishes  not 
herself  to  tell  how  good  she  was  to  me  !  "  said  Marie. 
"  I  had  many  troubles  after  ury  husband  died.  I 
told  you  my  son  Louis  was  a  great  grief,  and  we 
were  poor  —  very  poor  —  I  had  a  little  fruit-stall  at 
the  market  —  " 

"  Like  my  old  woman  in  Paris,"  said  Molly,  nod- 
ding her  head. 

"  And  there  it  was  the  dear  lady  first  saw  me," 
said  Marie.  "It  was  all  through  the  apples  —  bon 
papa  did  well  for  me  the  day  he  planted  that  tree ! 
They  were  so  fine  —  Madame  bought  them  for  the 
poor  gentleman  who  was  ill  —  and  then  I  came  to 


THE   APPLE-TREE    OF    STBFANOS.  83 

tell  her  my  history ;  and  when  she  took  this  house 
she  asked  me  to  be  her  concierge.  Since  then  I  have 
no  troubles  —  my  daughter  married^  long  ago  of 
course,  but  she  died,  and  her  husband  died,  and  the 
friends  were  not  good  for  her  children,  and  it  was 
these  I  had  to  provide  for  —  my  granddaughters. 
But  now  they  are  very  well  off  —  each  settled,  and 
so  good  to  me  !  The  married  one  comes  with  her 
be*be  every  Sunday,  and  the  other,  in  a  good  place, 
sends  me  always  a  part  of  her  wages.  And  my  son 
too  —  he  that  went  to  Paris  —  he  writes  often.  Ah 
yes,  I  am  well  satisfied !  And  always  my  great- 
nephews  send  me  the  apples  —  every  year  —  their 
father  and  their  grandfather  made  the  promise,  and 
it  has  never  been  broken.  And  still,  my  little  young 
ladies  and  little  Monsieur  —  still,  the  old  apple-tree 
at  the  paternal  house  at  Stefanos,  is  called  '  le  pom- 
mier  de  la  petite.'  " 

"How  nice!"  said  the  children  all  together. 
"  Thank  you,  Marie,  thank  you  so  much  for  telling 
us  the  story." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

grandmother's  grandmother. 

"  I'll  tell  you  a  story  of  Jack-o-my-nory, 
And  now  my  story's  begun. 
I'll  tell  you  another  of  Jack  and  his  brother, 
And  now  my  story's  done." 

Old  Nursery  Rhyme. 

Marie's  story  was  the  subject  of  much  conversa- 
tion among  the  children.  Sylvia  announced  her 
intention  of  writing  it  down. 

"  She  tells  it  so  nicely,"  she  said.  "  I  could  have 
written  it  down  beautifully  while  she  was  talking,  if 
she  would  have  waited." 

"  She  would  not  have  been  able  to  tell  it  so  nicely 
if  she  had  known  you  were  waiting  to  write  down 
every  word  as  she  said  it,"  remarked  grandmother. 
"  At  least  in  her  place  I  don't  think  J  could." 

A  shriek  from  Molly  here  startled  them  all,  or 
perhaps  I  should  say,  would  have  done  so,  had  they 
been  less  accustomed  to  her  eccentric  behaviour. 

"  What  is  the  matter  now,  my  dear?"  said  aunty. 

"  Oh,"  said  Molly,  gasping  with  eagerness,  "grand- 
mother's saying  that  reminded  me." 

"But  what  about,  my  dear  child?" 

"  About  telling  stories ;  don't  you  remember 
grandmother  dear,  I  said  you  would  be  perfect  if  you 

84 


grandmother's  grandmother.      85 

would  tell  us  stories,  and  you  didn't  say  you 
wouldn't." 

"And  what's  more,  grandmother  promised  me 
one,"  said  Ralph. 

"  Did  I,  my  dear  boy  ?  " 

"Yes,  grandmother,"  said  Ralph,  looking  rather 
abashed,  "don't  you  remember,  grandmother  —  the 
day  I  called  Prosper  de  Lastre  a  cad  ?  I  don't  think 
he's  a  cad  now,"  he  added  in  a  lower  voice. 

"  Ah  yes,  I  remember  now,"  said  grandmother. 
"  But  do  you  know,  my  dears,  I  am  so  sorry  I  cannot 
find  your  Uncle  Jack's  manuscript.  He  had  written 
it  out  so  well  —  all  I  can  find  is  the  letter  in  which 
he  first  alluded  to  the  incident,  very  shortly.  How- 
ever, I  remember  most  of  it  pretty  clearly.  I  will 
think  it  over  and  refresh  my  memory  with  the  letter, 
and  some  day  I  will  tell  it  to  you." 

"  Can't  you  tell  it  us  to-night  then,  grandmother 
dear?"  said  Molly  in  very  doleful  tones. 

They  were  all  sitting  round  the  fire,  for  it  was 
early  December  now,  and  fires  are  needed  then,  even 
at  Chalet !  What  a  funny  fire  some  of  you  would 
think  such  a  one,  children  !  No  grate,  no  fender, 
such  as  you  are  accustomed  to  see  —  just  two  or  three 
iron  bars  placed  almost  on  the  floor,  which  serve  to 
support  the  nice  round  logs  of  wood  burning  so 
brightly,  but  alas  for  grandmother's  purse,  so  swiftly 
away !  But  the  brass  knobs  and  bars  in  front  look 
cheery  and  sparkling,  and  then  the  indispensable 
bellows  are  a  delightful  invention  for  fidgety  fingers 
like    those   of    Ralph    and    Molly.     How  many  new 


86  "  GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

"  nozzles "  grandmother  had  to  pay  for  her  poor 
bellows  that  winter  I  should  really  be  afraid  to  say ! 
And  once,  to  Molly's  indescribable  consternation,  the 
bellows  got  on  fire  inside ;  there  was  no  outward 
injury  to  be  seen,  but  they  smoked  alarmingly,  and 
internal  crackings  were  to  be  heard  of  a  fearful  and 
mysterious  description.  Molly  flew  to  the  kitchen, 
and  flung  the  bellows,  as  if  they  were  alive,  into  a 
pan  of  water  that  stood  handy.  Doubtless  the 
remedy  was  effectual  so  far  as  extinguishing  the  fire 
was  concerned,  but  as  for  the  after  result  on  the  con- 
stitution of  the  poor  bellows  I  cannot  report  favour- 
ably, as  they  were  never  again  fit  to  use.  And,  as 
this  was  the  fourth  pair  spoilt  in  a  month,  Molly  was 
obliged  to  give  up  half  her  weekly  money  for  some 
time  towards  replacing  them  ! 

But  we  are  wandering  away  from  the  talk  by  the 
fire  —  grandmother  and  aunty  in  their  low  chairs 
working  —  the  three  children  lying  in  various  atti- 
tudes on  the  hearthrug,  for  hearthrug  there  was, 
seldom  as  such  superfluities  are  to  be  seen  at  Chalet. 
Grandmother  was  too  "English"  to  have  been 
satisfied  with  her  pretty  drawing-room  without  one 
—  a  nice  fluffy,  flossy  one,  which  the  children  were 
so  fond  of  burrowing  in  that  grandmother  declared 
she  would  need  a  new  one  by  the  time  the  winter 
was  over ! 

"  Cant  you  tell  it  to  us  to-night  then,  grandmother 
dear  ?  "  said  Molly. 

"  I  would  rather  think  it  over  a  little  first,'"  said 
grandmother.     "  You  forget,  Molly,  that  old  people's 


grandmother's  grandmother.      87 

memories  are  not  like  young  ones.  And,  as  Marie 
says,  it  is  very  curious  how,  the  older  one  gets,  the 
further  back  things  are  those  that  one  remembers 
the  most  distinctly.  The  middle  part  of  my  life 
is  hazy  compared  with  the  earlier  part.  I  can 
remember  the  patterns  of  some  of  my  dresses  as  a 
very  little  girl  —  I  can  remember  words  said  and 
trifling  things  done  fifty  years  ago  better  than  little 
things  that  happened  last  month." 

"  How  queer  !  "  said  Molly.  "  Shall  we  all  be  like 
that,  grandmother  dear,  when  we  get  old  ?  " 

Grandmother  laid  down  her  knitting  and  looked 
at  the  children  with  a  soft  smile  on  her  face. 

"  Yes,  dears,  I  suppose  so.  It  is  the  '  common  lot.' 
J  remember  once  asking  my  grandmother  a  question 
very  like  that." 

"  Your  grandmother  !  "  exclaimed  all  the  children 
—  Molly  adding,  "Had  you  ever  a  grandmother, 
grandmother  dear?" 

"Oh,  Molly,  how  can  you  be  so  silly?"  said  Ralph 
and  Sylvia,  together. 

"  I'm  not  silly,"  said  Molly.  "  It  is  you  that  are 
silly  not  to  understand  what  I  mean.  I  am  sure 
anybody  might.  Of  course  I  mean  can  grandmother 
remember  her  —  did  she  know  her?  Supposing  any- 
body's grandmother  died  before  they  were  born,  then 
they  wouldn't  ever  have  had  one,  would  they  now?  " 

Molly  sat  up  on  the  rug,  and  tossed  back  her  hair 
out  of  her  eyes,  convinced  that  her  logic  was  un- 
answerable. 

"  You  shouldn't  begin  by  saying  '  anybody's  grand- 


OS  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR. 

mother,' "  remarked  Ralph.  "  You  put  anybody  in 
the  possessive  case,  which  means,  of  course,  that  the 
grandmother  belonged  to  the  anybody,  and  then  you 
make  out  that  the  anybody  never  had  one." 

Molly  retorted  by  putting  her  fingers  in  her  ears 
and  shaking  her  head  vehemently  at  her  brother. 
"  Be  quiet,  Ralph,"  she  said.  "  What's  the  good  of 
muddling  up  what  I  say,  and  making  my  head  feel 
so  uncomfortable  when  you  know  quite  well  what  I 
mean?  Please,  grandmother  dear,  will  you  go  on 
talking  as  soon  as  I  take  my  fingers  out  of  my  ears, 
and  then  he  will  have  to  leave  off  puzzling  me." 

"And  what  am  I  to  talk  about?"  asked  grand- 
mother. 

"  Tell  us  about  your  grandmother.  If  you  re- 
member things  long  ago  so  nicely,  you  must  remember 
story  sort  of  things  of  then,"  said  Molly  insinuatingly. 

"  I  really  don't,  my  dear  child.  Not  just  at  this 
moment,  anyhow." 

"  Well,  tell  us  about  your  grandmother :  what  was 
she  like?  was  she  like  you?" 

Grandmother  shook  her  head. 

"  That  I  cannot  say,  my  dear ;  I  have  no  portrait 
of  her,  nor  have  I  ever  seen  one  since  I  have  been 
grown  up.  She  died  when  I  was  about  fifteen,  and 
as  my  father  was  not  the  eldest  son,  few,  if  any,  heir- 
looms fell  to  his  share.  And  a  good  many  years 
before  my  grandmother's  death  —  at  the  time  of  her 
husband's  death  —  the  old  home  was  sold,  and  she 
came  to  live  in  a  curious  old-fashioned  house,  in  the 
little  county  town  a  few  miles  from  where  we  lived. 


grandmother's  grandmother.      89 

This  old  house  had  belonged  to  her  own  family  for 
many,  many  years,  and,  as  all  her  brothers  were  dead, 
it  became  hers.  She  was  veiy  proud  of  it,  and  even 
during  my  grandfather's  life  they  used  to  come  in 
from  the  country  to  spend  the  worst  of  the  winter 
there.  Dear  me  !  what  a  long  time  back  it  takes  us  ! 
were  my  grandmother  living  now,  she  would  be  —  let 
me  see  —  my  father  would  have  been  a  hundred  years 
old  by  now.  I  was  the  youngest  of  a  large  family 
you  know,  dears.  His  mother  would  have  been 
about  a  hundred  and  thirty.  It  takes  us  back  to  the 
middle  of  George  the  Second's  reign." 

"  Yes,"  said  Molly  so  promptly,  that  every  one 
looked  amazed,  "  George  the  First,  seventeen  hundred 
and  fourteen,  George  the  Second,  seventeen  hundred 
and  twenty-seven,  George  the  Third,  seventeen  hun- 
dred and  —  " 

"  When  did  you  learn  that  —  this  morning  I  sup- 
pose?" observed  Ralph  with  biting  sarcasm. 

"  No,"  said  Molly  complacently,  "  I  always  could 
remember  the  four  Georges.  Sylvia  will  tell  you. 
She  always  remembered  the  Norman  Conquest,  and 
King  John,  and  so  when  we  spoke  about  something 
to  do  with  these  dates  when  we  were  out  for  a  walk 
Miss  Bryce  used  to  be  as  pleased  as  pleased  with  us." 

"  Is  that  the  superlative  of  '  very  pleased,'  my  dear 
Molly  ?  "  said  aunty. 

Molly  wriggled. 

"History  is  bad  enough,"  she  muttered.  "I  don't 
think  we  need  have  grammar  too,  just  when  I  thought 
we  were  going  to  have  nice  story-talking.     Did  you 


90  "  GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

like  lessons  when  you  were  little,  grandmother  dear?" 
she  inquired  in  a  louder  voice. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  did,"  said  grandmother.  "  I 
was  a  very  tom-boy  little  girl,  Molly.  And  lessons 
were  not  nearly  so  interesting  in  those  days  as  they 
are  made  now." 

"  Then  they  must  have  been  —  dreadful"  said  Molly 
solemnly,  pausing  for  a  sufficiently  strong  word. 

"  What  did  you  like  when  you  were  little,  grand- 
mother?" said  Sylvia.  "I  mean,  what  did  you  like 
best?  " 

" I  really  don't  know  what  I  liked  best"  said 
grandmother.  "  There  were  so  many  nice  things. 
Haymaking  was  delicious,  so  were  snow-balling  and 
sliding  ;  blindman's  buff  and  snapdragon  at  Christmas 
were  not  bad,  nor  were  strawberries  and  cream  in 
summer." 

The  children  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Had  you  all  those  ?  "  they  said.  "  Oh,  what  a 
happy  little  girl  you  must  have  been !  " 

"  And  all  the  year  round,"  pursued  grandmother, 
"  there  was  another  delight  that  never  palled.  When 
I  look  back  upon  myself  in  those  days  I  cannot  be- 
lieve that  ever  a  child  was  a  greater  adept  at  it." 

"What  was  that,  grandmother?"  said  the  chil- 
dren, opening  their  eyes. 

"  Mischief,  my  dears,"  said  grandmother.  "  The 
scrapes  I  got  into  of  falling  into  brooks,  tearing  my 
clothes,  climbing  up  trees  and  finding  I  could  not 
get  down  again,  putting  my  head  through  window- 
panes —  ah  dear,  I  certainly  had  nine  lives." 


grandmother's  grandmother.     91 

"  And  what  did  your  grandmother  say  ?  Did  she 
scold  you?"  asked  Molly  —  adding  in  a  whisper  to 
Ralph  and  Sylvia,  "  Grandmother  must  have  been 
an  awfully  nice  little  girl." 

"  My  grandmother  was  to  outward  appearance  quiet 
and  rather  cold,"  replied  their  grandmother.  "  For 
long  I  was  extremely  afraid  of  her,  till  something 
happened  which  led  to  my  knowing  her  true  charac- 
ter, and  after  that  we  were  friends  for  life  —  till  her 
death.  It  is  hardly  worth  calling  a  story,  but  I  will 
tell  it  to  you  if  you  like,  children." 

"  Oh,  please  do,"  they  exclaimed,  and  Molly's  eyes 
grew  round  with  satisfaction  at  having  after  all  in- 
veigled grandmother  into  story  telling. 

"I  told  you,"  grandmother  began,  "  that  my  grand- 
mother lived  in  a  queer,  very  old-fashioned  house  in 
the  little  town  near  which  was  our  home.  It  was 
such  a  queer  house,  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  it, 
but  long  ago  it  was  pulled  down,  and  the  ground 
where  it  stood  used  for  shops  or  warehouses.  When 
you  entered  it,  you  saw  no  stair  at  all  —  then,  on 
opening  a  door,  you  found  yourself  at  the  foot  of  a 
very  high  spiral  staircase  that  went  round  and  round 
like  a  corkscrew  up  to  the  very  top  of  the  house.  By 
the  by  that  reminds  me  of  an  adventure  of  my  grand- 
mother's which  you  might  like  to  hear.  It  happened 
long  before  I  was  born,  but  she  has  often  told  it  me. 
Ah,  Molly,  I  see  that  twinkle  in  your  eyes,  my  dear, 
and  I  know  what  it  means !  You  think  you  have 
got  grandmother  started  now  —  wound  up  —  and  that 
you  will  get  her  to  go  on  and  on  ;   ah  well,  we  shall 


92  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

see.  Where  was  I  ?  Taking  you  up  the  corkscrew 
stair.  The  first  landing,  if  landing  it  could  be  called, 
it  was  so  small,  had  several  doors,  and  one  of  these 
led  into  a  little  ante-room,  out  of  which  opened  again 
a  larger  and  very  pretty  drawing-room.  It  was  a 
long,  rather  narrow  room,  and  what  I  admired  in  it 
most  of  all  were  wall  cupboards  with  glass  doors, 
within  which  my  grandmother  kept  all  her  treasures. 
There  were  six  of  them  at  least — an  two  or  three 
were  books,  of  which,  for  those  days,  grandmother 
had  a  good  many ;  another  held  Chinese  and  Indian 
curiosities,  carved  ivory  and  sandal-wood  ornaments, 
cuscus  grass  fans,  a  pair  or  two  of  Chinese  ladies' 
slippers  —  things  very  much  the  same  as  you  may  see 
some  of  now-a-days  in  almost  every  prettily  furnished 
drawing-room.  And  one,  or  two  perhaps,  of  the  cup- 
boards contained  treasures  which  are  rarer  now  than 
they  were  then  —  the  loveliest  old  china !  Even  I, 
child  as  I  was,  appreciated  its  beauty  —  the  tints  were 
so  delicate  and  yet  brilliant.  My  grandmother  had 
collected  much  of  it  herself,  and  her  taste  was  excel- 
lent. At  her  death  it  was  divided,  and  among  so 
many  that  it  seemed  to  melt  away.  All  that  came 
to  my  share  were  those  two  handless  cups  that  are  at 
the  top  of  that  little  cabinet  over  there,  and  those 
were  by  no  means  the  most  beautiful,  beautiful  as 
they  undoubtedly  are.  I  was  never  tired  of  feasting 
my  eyes  on  grandmother's  china  when  I  used  to  be 
sent  to  spend  a  day  with  her,  which  happened  every 
few  weeks.  And  sometimes,  for  a  great  treat,  she 
used  to  open  the  wall  cupboards  and  let  me  handle 


GRANDMOTHER'S  GRANDMOTHER.        93 

some  of  the  things  —  for  it  is  a  curious  fact  that  a 
child  cannot  admire  anything  to  its  perfect  satisfac- 
tion without  touching  it  too,  and  looking  back  upon 
things  now,  I  can  see  that  despite  her  cold  manner, 
my  grandmother  had  a  very  good  knowledge  of  chil- 
dren and  a  real  love  and  sympathy  for  them. 

"  One  day  —  it  was  a  late  autumn  day  I  remember, 
for  it  was  just  a  few  days  after  my  ninth  birthday  — 
my  birthday  is  on  the  fifteenth  of  November,  —  my 
mother  told  me  that  my  father,  having  to  drive  to 
the  town  the  following  day,  would  take  me  with  him 
to  spend  the  day  with  grandmother. 

"  '  And  Nelly,'  said  my  mother,  '  do  try  to  be  very 
good  and  behave  prettily.  I  really  fear,  my  dear, 
that  you  will  never  be  like  a  young  lady  —  it  is  play- 
ing so  much  with  your  brothers,  I  suppose,  and  you 
know  grandmother  is  very  particular.  The  last  time 
you  were  there  you  know  you  dressed  up  the  cat 
and  frightened  poor  old  Betsy  (my  grandmother's 
cook)  so.     Do  try  to  keep  out  of  mischief  this  time.' 

"  '  I  can't,'  I  said.  '  There  is  no  one  to  play  with 
there.  I  would  rather  stay  at  home ; '  and  I  teased 
my  mother  to  say  I  need  not  go.  But  it  was  no  good; 
she  was  firm  about  it  —  it  was  right  that  I,  the  only 
girl  at  home,  should  go  to  see  my  grandmother  some- 
times, and  my  mother  repeated  her  admonitions  as  to 
my  behaviour ;  and  as  I  really  loved  her  dearly  I 
promised  to  '  try  to  be  very  good ; '  and  the  next 
morning  I  set  off  with  my  father  in  excellent  spirits. 
There  was  nothing  I  liked  better  than  a  drive  with 
him,  especially  in  rather  cold  weather,  for  then  he 


04  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

used  to  tuck  me  up  so  beautifully  warm  in  his  nice 
soft  rugs,  so  that  hardly  anything  but  the  tip  of  my 
nose  was  to  be  seen,  and  he  would  call  me  his  'little 
woman '  and  pet  me  to  my  heart's  content. 

"  When  we  reached  my  grandmother's  I  felt  very 
reluctant  to  descend  from  my  perch,  and  I  said  to  my 
father  that  I  wished  he  would  take  me  about  the 
town  with  him  instead  of  leaving  me  there. 

"  He  explained  to  me  that  it  was  impossible  —  he 
had  all  sorts  of  things  to  do,  a  magistrate's  meeting 
to  attend,  and  I  don't  know  all  what.  Besides  which 
he  liked  me  to  be  with  my  grandmother,  and  he  told 
me  I  was  a  silly  little  goose  when  I  said  I  was  afraid 
of  her. 

"  My  father  entered  the  house  without  knocking 
—  there  was  no  need  to  lock  doors  in  the  quiet  streets 
of  the  little  old  town,  where  everybody  that  passed 
up  and  down  was  known  by  everybody  else,  and  their 
business  often  known  better  by  the  everybody  else 
than  by  themselves.  We  went  up  to  the  drawing- 
room,  there  was  nobody  there  —  my  father  went  out 
of  the  room  and  called  up  the  staircase,  '  Mother, 
where  are  you  ?  ' 

"  Then  I  heard  my  grandmother's  voice  in  return. 

"  '  My  clear  Hugh  —  is  it  you  ?  I  am  so  sorry.  I 
cannot  possibly  come  down.  It  is  the  third  Tuesday 
of  the  month.     My  wardrobe  day.' 

"  '  And  the  little  woman  is  here  too.  What  shall  I 
do  with  her?'  said  my  father.  He  seemed  to  under- 
stand, though  I  did  not,  what  'wardrobe  day'  meant. 

^  l  Bring  her  up  here,'  my  grandmother  called  back. 


grandmother's  grandmother.     95 

'  I  shall  soon  have  arranged  all,  and  then  I  can  take 
her  downstairs  again.' 

"  I  was  standing  on  the  landing  by  my  father  by 
this  time,  and,  far  from  loth  to  discover  what  my 
grandmother  was  about,  I  followed  him  upstairs. 
You  have  no  idea,  children,  what  a  curious  sight  met 
me  !  My  grandmother,  who  was  a  very  little  woman, 
was  perched  upon  a  high  stool,  hanging  up  on  a  great 
clothes-horse  ever  so  many  dresses,  which  she  had 
evidently  taken  out  of  a  wardrobe,  close  by,  whose 
doors  were  wide  open.  There  were  several  clothes- 
horses  in  the  room,  all  more  or  less  loaded  with  gar- 
ments, —  and  oh,  what  queer,  quaint  garments  some 
of  them  were  !  The  clothes  my  grandmother  herself 
had  on  —  even  those  I  was  wearing  —  would  seem 
curious  enough  to  you  if  you  could  see  them  now,  — 
but  when  I  tell  you  that  of  those  she  was  hanging- 
out,  many  had  belonged  to  her  grandmother,  and 
mother,  and  aunts,  and  great-aunts,  you  can  fancy 
what  a  wonderful  array  there  was.  Her  own  wed- 
ding dress  was  among  them,  and  all  the  coloured 
silks  and  satins  she  had  possessed  before  her  widow- 
hood. And  more  wonderful  even  than  the  dresses 
were  a  few,  not  very  many,  for  indeed  no  room  or 
wardrobe  would  have  held  very  many,  bonnets,  or 
'  hats,'  as  I  think  they  were  then  always  called. 
Huge  towering  constructions,  with  feathers  sticking 
straight  up  on  the  top,  like  the  pictures  of  Cinderella's 
sisters  in  old-fashioned  fairy-tale  books  —  so  enor- 
mous that  any  ordinary  human  head  must  have  been 
lost  in  their  depths." 


96  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

u  Did  you  ever  try  one  on,  grandmother?"  said 
Molly. 

Grandmother  shook  her  head. 

"  I  should  not  have  been  allowed  to  take  such  a 
liberty,"  she  said.  "  I  stood  and  stared  about  me  in 
perfect  amazement  without  speaking  for  a  minute  or 
two,  till  my  grandmother  got  down  from  her  stool, 
and  my  father  told  me  to  go  to  speak  to  her. 

" '  Are  you  going  away,  grandmother  ?  '  I  said  at 
last,  my  curiosity  overcoming  my  shyness.  '  Are 
these  all  your  clothes  ?  You  will  want  a  great  many 
boxes  to  pack  them  in,  and  what  queer  ones  some  of 
them  are ! ' 

"  '  Queer,  my  dear,'  said  my  grandmother.  '  They 
are  certainly  not  like  what  you  get  now-a-days,  if 
that  is  what  you  mean  by  queer.  See  here,  Nelly, 
this  is  your  great-grandmother's  wedding  dress  — 
white  Padusoy  embroidered  in  gold  —  why,  child,  it 
would  stand  alone !  And  this  salmon-coloured  satin, 
with  the  pea-green  slip  — ■  will  the  stuffs  they  dye  now 
keep  their  colour  like  that  a  hundred  years  hence  ? ' 

"  '  It's  good  strong  stuff  certainly,'  said  my  father, 
touching  it  as  he  spoke.  But  then  he  went  on  to  say 
to  my  grandmother  that  the  days  for  such  things 
were  past.  '  We  don't  want  our  clothes  to  last  a 
century  now,  mother,'  he  said.  '  Times  are  hurrying 
on  faster,  and  we  must  make  up  our  minds  to  go  on 
with  them  and  leave  our  old  clothes  behind.  The 
world  would  get  too  full  if  everybody  cherished  by- 
gone relics  as  you  do.' 

"I   don't   think   she    much    liked    his  talking  so. 


grandmother's  grandmother.     97 

She  shook  her  head  and  said  something  about  revolu- 
tionary ideas,  which  I  didn't  understand.  But  my 
father  only  laughed ;  his  mother  and  he  were  the 
best  of  friends,  though  he  liked  to  tease  her  some- 
times. I  wandered  about  the  room,  peeping  in  among 
the  rows  of  quaint  costumes,  and  thinking  to  nryself 
what  fun  it  would  be  to  dress  up  in  them.  But  after 
a  while  I  got  tired,  and  I  was  hungry  too,  so  I  was 
very  glad  when  grandmother,  having  hung  out  the 
last  dress  to  air,  said  we  must  go  down  to  dinner  — 
my  father  had  left  some  time  before  —  " 

"  What  did  you  have  for  dinner,  grandmother  ? " 
said  Sylvia.  "  It  isn't  that  I  care  so  much  about 
eating,"  she  added,  blushing  a  little,  "  but  I  like  to 
know  exactly  the  sort  of  way  people  lived,  you  know." 

"  Only  I  wish  you  wouldn't  interrupt  grand- 
mother," said  Molly.  "  I'm  so  afraid  it'll  be  bedtime 
before  she  finishes  the  story." 

"  Which  isn't  yet  begun  —  eh,  Molly  ?  "  said  grand- 
mother. "  I  warned  you  my  stories  were  sadly 
deficient  in  beginning  and  end,  and  middle  too  —  in 
short  they  are  not  stories  at  all." 

"  Never  mind,  they're  very  nice,"  said  Molly ; 
"and  if  I  may  sit  up  till  this  one's  done  I  don't 
mind  your  telling  Sylvia  what  you  had  for  dinner, 
grandmother  dear." 

"  Many  thanks  for  your  small  majesty's  gracious 
permission,"  said  grandmother.  "  But  as  to  what  we 
had  lor  dinner,  I  really  can't  say.  Much  the  same  as 
you  have  now,  I  fancy.  Let  me  see  —  it  was  Novem- 
ber—  very  likely  a  roast  chicken  and  nice  pudding." 


98  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Sylvia,  in  a  tone  of  some  disappoint- 
ment ;  "  go  on  then,  please,  grandmother." 

"  Where  was  I  ?  "  said  grandmother.  "  Oh  yes  — 
well,  after  dinner  we  went  up  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  grandmother,  saying  she  was  a  good  deal  tired 
by  her  exertions  of  the  morning,  sat  down  in  her  own 
particular  easy  chair  by  the  fire,  and,  spreading  over 
her  face  a  very  fine  cambric  handkerchief  which  she 
kept,  I  strongly  suspect,  for  the  purpose,  prepared 
for  her  after-dinner  nap.  It  was  really  a  regular  in- 
stitution with  her  —  but  I  noticed  she  always  made 
some  little  special  excuse  for  it,  as  if  it  was  some- 
thing quite  out  of  the  common.  She  told  me  to 
amuse  myself  during  her  forty  winks  by  looking  at 
the  treasures  in  the  glass-doored  cupboards,  which 
she  knew  I  was  very  fond  of  admiring,  and  she  told 
me  I  might  open  the  book  cupboard  if  I  wanted 
to  take  out  a  book,  but  on  no  account  any  of  the 
others. 

"  Now  I  assure  you,  children,  and  by  your  own 
experience  you  will  believe  what  I  say,  that,  but  for 
my  grandmother's  warnings,  the  idea  of  opening  the 
glass  doors  when  by  myself  would  never  have  come 
into  my  head.  I  had  often  been  in  the  drawing-room 
alone  and  gazed  admiringly  at  the  treasures  without 
ever  dreaming  of  examining  them  more  closely.  I 
had  never  even  wished  to  do  so,  any  more  than  one 
wishes  to  handle  the  moon  or  stars  or  any  other  un- 
get-at-able objects.  But  now,  unfortunately,  the  idea 
was  suggested,  it  had  been  put  into  my  head,  and 
there  it  stayed.     I  walked  round  the  room  gazing  in 


geandmothee's  geandmothee.     99 

at  the  cupboards  in  turn  —  the  book  ones  did  not 
particularly  attract  me  —  long  ago  I  had  read,  over 
and  over  again,  the  few  books  in  my  grandmother's 
possession  that  I  could  feel  interested  in,  and  I  stood 
still  at  last  in  front  of  the  prettiest  cupboard  of  all, 
wishing  that  grandmother  had  not  forbidden  my 
opening  it.  There  were  such  lovely  cups  and  sau- 
cers !  I  longed  to  handle  them  —  one  in  particular 
that  I  felt  sure  I  had  never  seen  before.  It  had  a 
deep  rose  pink  ground,  and  in  the  centre  there  was 
the  sweetest  picture  of  a  dear  little  shepherdess  curt- 
seying to  an  equally  dear  little  shepherd. 

"  As  I  gazed  at  this  cup  the  idea  struck  me  that  it 
would  be  delicious  to  dress  one  of  my  dolls  in  the 
little  shepherdess's  costume,  and,  eager  to  see  it  more 
minutely,  I  opened  the  glass  door,  and  was  just 
stretching  up  my  hand  for  the  cup,  when  I  again 
remembered  what  my  grandmother  had  said.  I 
glanced  round  at  her;  she  was  fast  asleep ;  there  was 
no  danger ;  what  harm  could  it  do  for  me  to  take  the 
cup  into  my  hand  for  a  moment?  I  stretched  up 
and  took  it.  Yes,  it  was  really  most  lovely,  and  the 
little  shepherdess's  dress  seemed  to  me  a  perfect  fac- 
simile of  the  one  I  had  most  admired  up  stairs  in  my 
grandmother's  wardrobe  —  a  pea-green  satin  over  a 
pale  pink  or  rather  salmon-coloured  quilted  slip.  I 
determined  that  Lady  Rosabella  should  have  one  the 
same,  and  I  was  turning  over  in  my  mind  the  possi- 
bilities of  getting  satin  of  the  particular  shades  I 
thought  so  pretty,  when  a  slight  sound  in  the  direc- 
tion,  it  seemed    to    me,   of    my   grandmother's    arm- 


100  "  GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

chair,  startled  me.  I  turned  round  hastily  —  how  it 
was  1  cannot  tell,  but  so  it  was  —  the  beautiful  cup 
fell  from  my  hands  and  lay  at  my  feet  in,  I  was 
going  to  say,  a  thousand  fragments." 

"  Oh !  "  exclaimed  Sylvia  and  Molly  —  "  oh,  grand- 
mother, what  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  First  of  all,"  grandmother  continued,  "  first  of 
all  I  stooped  down  and  picked  up  the  pieces.  There 
were  not  a  thousand  of  them  —  not  perhaps  above 
a  dozen,  and  after  all,  grandmother  was  sleeping 
quietly,  but  to  all  appearance  soundly.  The  sound 
that  had  startled  me  must  have  been  a  fancied  one, 
I  said  to  myself,  and  oh  dear,  what  a  terrible  pity  I 
had  been  startled ! 

"  I  gathered  the  bits  together  in  my  handkerchief, 
and  stood  staring  at  them  in  perfect  despair.  I  dared 
not  let  myself  burst  out  crying  as  I  was  inclined  to 
do,  for  grandmother  would  have  heard  me  and  asked 
what  was  the  matter,  and  I  felt  that  I  should  sink 
into  the  earth  with  shame  and  terror  if  she  saw  what 
I  had  done,  and  that  I  had  distinctly  disobeyed  her. 
My  only  idea  was  to  conceal  the  mischief.  I  huddled 
the  bits  up  together  in  my  handkerchief,  and  huddled 
the  handkerchief  into  my  pocket  —  the  first  pocket  I 
had  ever  had,  I  rather  think  —  and  then  I  looked  up 
to  see  if  the  absence  of  the  cup  was  very  conspicuous. 
I  thought  not;  the  saucer  was  still  there,  and  by  pull- 
ing one  or  two  of  the  other  pieces  of  china  forward  a 
little,  I  managed  to  make  it  look  as  if  the  cup  was 
just  accidentally  hidden.  To  reach  up  to  do  this,  I 
had  to  draw  forward  a  chair  :  in  fretting-  down  from  it 


grandmother's  grandmother.     101 

again  I  made  some  little  noise,  and  I  looked  round 
in  terror  to  see  if  grandmother  was  awake.  No,  she 
was  still  sleeping  soundly.  What  a  blessing  !  I  got 
out  of  one  of  the  book  cupboards  a  book  I  had  read 
twenty  times  at  least,  and  sitting  down  on  a  stool  by 
the  fire  I  pretended  to  read  it  again,  while  really  all 
my  ideas  were  running  on  what  I  should,  what  I 
could  do.  For  I  had  no  manner  of  doubt  that  before 
long  the  accident  would  be  discovered,  and  I  felt  sure 
that  my  grandmother's  displeasure  would  be  very 
severe.  I  knew  too  that  my  having  tried  to  conceal 
it  would  make  her  far  less  ready  to  forgive  me,  and 
yet  I  felt  that  I  could  not  make  up  1113"  mind  to  con- 
fess it  all.  I  was  so  miserable  that  it  was  the  great- 
est relief  to  me  a  minute  or  two  afterwards  to  hear 
the  hall  door  open  and  my  father's  hearty  voice  on 
the  stair. 

" '  I  have  come  to  fetch  you  rather  sooner  than  I 
said,  little  woman,'  he  exclaimed,  as  he  came  in,  and 
then  he  explained  that  he  had  promised  to  drive  a 
friend  who  lived  near  us  home  from  the  town  in  our 
gig,  and  that  this  friend  being  in  a  hurry,  we  must 
leave  earlier  than  usual.  My  grandmother  had 
wakened  up  of  course  with  my  father's  coming  in. 
It  seemed  to  me,  or  was  it  my  fancy?  —  that  she 
looked  graver  than  usual  and  rather  sad  as  she  bade 
us  good-bye.  She  kissed  me  very  kindly,  more  ten- 
derly than  was  her  habit,  and  said  to  my  father  that 
he  must  be  sure  to  bring  me  again  very  soon,  so  that 
as  I  was  going  downstairs  with  him,  he  said  to  me 
that  he  was  glad  to  see  how  fond  grandmother  was 


102  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

getting  of  me,  and  that  lie  would  bring  me  again 
next  week.  I  did  not  feel  at  all  pleased  at  this  —  I 
felt  more  unhappy  than  ever  I  had  done  in  my  life, 
so  that  my  father,  noticing  it,  asked  what  was  the 
matter.  I  replied  that  I  was  tired  and  that  I  did  not 
care  for  going  to  grandmother's,  and  then,  when  I 
saw  that  this  ungracious  answer  vexed  my  kind 
father,  I  felt  more  and  more  unhappy.  Every  mo- 
ment as  we  walked  along — we  were  to  meet  the 
carriage  at  the  inn  where  it  had  been  left  —  the  bits 
of  broken  china  in  my  pocket  bumped  against  my 
leg,  as  if  they  would  not  let  themselves  be  forgotten. 
I  wished  I  could  stop  and  throw  them  away,  but 
that  was  impossible.  I  trudged  along,  gloomy  and 
wretched,  with  a  weight  on  my  heart  that  it  seemed 
to  me  I  would  never  get  rid  of.  Suddenly  —  so  sud- 
denly that  I  could  hardly  believe  my  own  senses  — 
something  caught  my  eye  that  entirely  changed  my 
whole  ideas.  I  darted  forward,  my  father  was  a  few 
steps  in  front  of  me  —  the  footpath  was  so  narrow  in 
the  old  town  that  there  was  often  not  room  for  two 
abreast  —  and  —  " 

Just  at  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  grand- 
mother's maid  appeared  with  the  tea-tray.  Molly 
gave  an  impatient  shake. 

"  Oh,  what  a  bother !  "  she  said.  "  I  quite  forgot 
about  tea.  And  immediately  after  tea  it  is  always 
time  for  us  to  go  to  bed.  It  is  eight  o'clock  now,  oh, 
grandmother,  do  finish  the  story  to-night." 

"  And  why  cannot  my  little  girl  ask  it  without  all 
those  shakes  and  'bothers'?  "  said  grandmother.     She 


grandmother's  grandmother.     103 

spoke  very  gently,  but  Molly  looked  considerably 
ashamed. 

"  Yes,  grandmother  dear,"  she  replied  meekly. 
Then  she  got  up  from  the  rug  and  stood  by  aunty 
patiently,  while  she  poured  out  the  tea,  first  "  grand- 
mothering "  each  cup  to  keep  it  from  slipping  about, 
then  warming  them  with  a  little  hot  water,  then  put- 
ting in  the  beautiful  yellow  cream,  the  sugar,  and 
the  nice  rich  brown  tea,  all  in  the  particular  way 
grandmother  liked  it  done.  And  during  the  process, 
Molly  did  not  once  wriggle  or  twist  with  impatience, 
so  that  when  she  carried  grandmother's  tea  to  her, 
very  carefully  and  steadily,  without  a  drop  spilling 
over  into  the  saucer  in  the  way  grandmother  disliked 
to  see,  she  got  a  kiss  by  way  of  reward,  and  what 
was  still  better  perhaps,  grandmother  looked  up  and 
said, 

"  That's  my  good  little  woman.  There  is  not  much 
more  of  what  you  call  '  my  story '  to  tell,  but  such  as 
it  is,  you  may  sit  up  to  hear  it,  if  you  like." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

grandmother's  story —  (continued}. 

"  O  while  you  live,  tell  truth." 

Henry  IV.,  Part  I. 

So  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  all  settled  again, 
and  grandmother  went  on. 

"  We  were  walking  through  a  very  narrow  street, 
I  was  telling  you  —  was  I  not?  when  I  caught  sight 
of  something  that  suddenly  changed  my  ideas. 
'What  was  this  something?'  you  are  all  asking,  I 
see.  It  was  a  china  cup  in  a  shop  window  we  were 
passing,  a  perfect  match  it  seemed  to  me  of  the  un- 
fortunate one  still  lamenting  its  fate  by  rattling  its 
bits  in  my  pocket !  It  was  a  shabby  little  old  shop, 
of  which  there  were  a  good  many  in  the  town,  filled 
with  all  sorts  of  curiosities,  and  quite  in  the  front  of 
the  window,  as  conspicuous  as  if  placed  there  on  pur- 
pose, stood  the  cup.  I  darted  forward  to  beg  my 
father  to  let  me  wait  a  moment,  but  just  then,  curi- 
ously enough,  he  had  met  a  friend  and  was  standing 
talking  to  him,  and  when  I  touched  his  arm  he  turned 
rather  hastily,  for,  as  I  told  you,  he  had  not  been 
pleased  with  my  way  of  replying  about  my  grand- 
mother. And  he  said  to  me  I  must  not  be  so  impa- 
tient, but  wait  till  he  had  finished  speaking  to  Mr. 

104 


Zwanzig  —  Twenty  Schelling,  that  Our."  —  p.  105. 


grandmother's  story.  105 

Lennox.  I  asked  him  if  I  might  look  in  at  the  shop 
window,  and  he  said  '  Yes,  of  course  I  might,'  so  I 
flew  back,  the  bits  rattle-rattling  in  my  pocket,  and 
stood  gazing  at  the  twin-cup.  I  must  tell  you  that 
I  happened  to  have  in  my  possession  an  unusual 
amount  of  money  just  then  —  ten  shillings,  actually 
ten  whole  shillings,  which  my  father  had  given  me 
on  in}-  birthday,  and  as  I  always  brought  my  purse 
with  me  when  I  came  into  the  town,  there  it  was  all 
ready !  I  looked  and  looked  at  the  cup  till  I  was 
satisfied  it  was  a  perfect  match,  then  glancing  up 
the  street  and  seeing  my  father  still  talking  to  his 
friend,  I  crept  timidly  into  the  shop,  and  asked  the 
price  of  the  pink  cup  and  saucer  in  the  window. 

"  The  old  man  in  the  shop  was  a  German ;  after- 
wards my  grandmother  told  me  he  was  a  Jew,  and 
well  accustomed  to  having  his  prices  beaten  down. 
He  looked  at  me  curiously  and  said  to  me, 

"'Ach!  too  moch  for  leetle  young  ladylike  you. 
Zwanzig —  twenty  schelling,  that  cup.  Old  lady 
bought  von,  vill  come  again  buy  anoder.  Zwanzig 
—  twenty  schelling.' 

"  I  grew  more  and  more  eager.  The  old  lady  he 
spoke  of  must  be  my  grandmother ;  I  had  often  heard 
my  father  laugh  at  her  for  poking  about  old  shops ; 
I  felt  perfectly  certain  the  cups  were  exactly  alike. 
I  begged  the  old  man  to  let  me  have  it,  and  opened 
my  purse  to  show  him  all  I  had  —  the  ten  shilling 
piece,  two  sixpences  and  a  fourpenny,  and  a  few 
coppers.  That  was  all,  and  the  old  man  shook  his 
head.     It   was  too  little,   'twenty  schelling,'  he  re- 


106  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

peated,  or  at  the  very  least,  to  oblige  the  'young 
lady,'  fifteen.  I  said  to  him  I  had  not  got  fifteen  — 
eleven  and  ninepence  was  everything  I  possessed, 
and  at  last,  in  my  eagerness,  I  nearly  burst  into  tears. 
I  really  do  not  know  if  the  old  man  was  sorry  for 
me,  or  if  he  only  thought  of  getting  my  money ; 
however  that  may  have  been,  he  took  my  purse  out 
of  my  hand  and  slowly  counted  out  the  money.  I 
meanwhile,  nearly  dancing  with  impatience,  while  he 
repeated  '  ninepence,  von  schelling,  zehn  schelling ! 
ach  veil,  most  be,  most  be,'  and  to  my  great  delight 
he  handed  me  the  precious  cup  aud  saucer,  first 
wrapping  them  up  in  a  dirty  bit  of  newspaper. 

"  Then  he  took  the  ten-shilling  piece  out  of  my 
purse,  and  handed  it  back  to  me,  leaving  me  in  pos- 
session of  my  two  sixpences,  my  fourpenny  bit,  and 
my  five  coppers. 

"  I  flew  out  of  the  shop  thanking  the  old  man 
effusively,  and  rushed  up  the  street  clutching  my 
treasure,  while  rattle-rattle  went  the  bones  of  its 
companion  in  my  pocket.  My  father  was  just  shak- 
ing hands  with  Mr.  Lennox  and  turning  round  to 
look  for  me,  when  I  ran  up.  Mr.  Lennox,  it  appeared, 
was  the  gentleman  who  was  to  have  driven  home 
with  us,  but  something  had  occurred  to  detain  him  in 
the  town,  and  he  was  on  his  way  to  explain  this  to 
my  father  when  we  met  him. 

"  My  father  was  rather  silent  and  grave  on  the  way 
home ;  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that  I  had  said 
anything  to  vex  him  ;  some  magistrates'  business  had 
worried  him,  and  it  was  that  that  he  had  been  talking 


grandmother's  story.  107 

about  to  Mr.  Lennox.  He  said  to  me  that  he  was 
half  afraid  he  would  have  to  drive  into  the  town 
again  the  next  day,  adding,  'It  is  a  pity  Lennox  did 
not  know  in  time.  By  staying  a  little  later,  we 
might  have  got  all  done.' 

"  To  his  astonishment  I  replied  by  begging  him  to 
let  me  come  with  him  again  the  next  day.  He  said  to 
me,  '  Why,  Nelly,  you  were  just  now  saying  you  did 
not  care  for  going  to  see  your  grandmother,  that  it 
was  dull,  and  tired  you.  What  queer  creatures 
children  are.' 

"  I  felt  my  cheeks  grow  hot,  but  I  replied  that  I 
was  sorry  I  had  said  that,  and  that  I  did  want  very 
much  to  go  to  see  my  grandmother  again.  Of  course 
you  will  understand,  children,  that  I  was  thinking 
about  the  best  chance  of  putting  back  the  cup,  or 
rather  its  substitute,  but  my  dear  father  thought  I 
was  sorry  for  having  vexed  him,  and  that  I  wanted  to 
please  him  by  asking  to  go  again,  so  he  readily 
granted  my  request.  But  I  felt  far  from  happy  that 
evening  at  home,  when  something  was  said  about 
my  wanting  to  go  again,  and  one  of  my  brothers 
remarking  that  I  must  surely  have  enjoyed  myself 
very  greatly  at  my  grandmother's,  my  father  and 
mother  looked  at  me  kindly  and  said  that  their  little 
Nelly  liked  to  please  others  as  well  as  herself.  Oh 
how  guilty  I  felt!  I  hated  having  anything  to  conceal, 
for  I  was  by  nature  very  frank.  And  oh,  what  a  tor- 
ment the  poor  cup  and  saucer  were!  I  got  rid  of  the 
bits  by  throwing  them  behind  a  hedge,  but  I  could 
not   tell    where  to  hide  my  purchase,  and  I  was  so 


108  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

terribly  afraid  of  breaking  it.  It  was  a  relief  to  my 
mind  the  next  morning  when  it  suddenly  struck  me 
that  I  need  not  take  the  saucer  too,  the  cup  was 
enough,  as  the  original  saucer  was  there  intact,  and 
the  cup  was  much  easier  to  cany  by  itself. 

"  When  we  got  to  the  town  my  father  let  me  down 
at  my  grandmother's  without  coming  in  himself  at 
all,  and  went  off  at  once  to  his  business.  The  door 
was  open,  and  I  saw  no  one  about.  I  made  my  way 
up  to  the  drawing-room  as  quickly  and  quietly  as 
possible ;  to  my  great  satisfaction  there  was  no  one 
there.  I  stole  across  the  room  to  the  china  cupboard, 
drew  forward  a  chair  and  climbed  upon  it,  and,  in 
mortal  fear  and  trembling,  placed  the  cup  on  the 
saucer  waiting  for  it.  They  seemed  to  match  exactly, 
but  I  could  not  wait  to  see  any  more  —  the  sound  of 
some  one  coming  along  the  ante-room  reached  my 
ears  —  I  had  only  just  time  to  close  the  door  of  the 
cupboard,  jump  down  and  try  to  look  as  if  nothing 
were  the  matter,  when  my  grandmother  entered  the 
room.  She  came  up  to  me  with  both  her  hands  out- 
stretched in  welcome,  and  a  look  on  her  face  that  I 
did  not  understand.  She  kissed  me  fondly,  ex- 
claiming, 

"  '  My  own  dear  little  Nelly.  I  thought  you  would 
come.  I  knew  you  would  not  be  happy  till  you 
had  — .'  But  she  stopped  suddenly.  I  had  drawn  a 
little  back  from  her,  and  again  I  felt  my  face  get  red. 
Why  would  people  praise  me  when  I  did  not  deserve 
it?  My  grandmother,  I  supposed,  thought  I  had 
come  again  because  I  had  felt  conscious  of  having 


grandmother's  story.  109 

been  not  particularly  gracious  the  clay  before  — 
whereas  I  knew  my  motive  to  have  been  nothing  of 
the  kind. 

" '  Papa  was  coming  again,  and  he  said  I  might 
come.  I  have  nothing  to  do  at  home  just  now.  It's 
holidays,'  I  said  abruptly,  my  very  honesty  now  lead- 
ing me  into  misrepresentations,  as  is  constantly  the 
case  once  one  has  quitted  the  quite  straight  path  of 
candour. 

"  ^7  grandmother  looked  pained  and  disappointed, 
but  said  nothing.  But  never  had  she  been  kinder. 
It  was  past  dinner  time,  but  she  ordered  tea  for  me 
an  hour  earlier  than  her  usual  time,  and  sent  down 
word  that  the  cook  was  to  bake  some  gridle-cakes,  as 
she  knew  I  was  fond  of  them.  And  what  a  nice  tea 
we  might  have  had  but  for  the  uncomfortable  little 
voice  that  kept  whispering  to  me  that  I  did  not  de- 
serve all  this  kindness,  that  I  was  deceiving  my 
grandmother,  which  was  far  worse  than  breaking 
twenty  cups.  I  felt  quite  provoked  with  myself  for 
feeling  so  uneasy.  I  had  thought  I  should  have  felt 
quite  comfortable  and  happy  once  the  cup  was  re- 
stored. I  had  spent  all,  or  very  nearly  all,  my  money 
on  it.  I  said  to  myself,  Who  could  have  done  more? 
And  I  determined  not  to  be  so  silly  and  to  think  no 
more  about  it  —  but  it  was  no  good.  Every  time  my 
grandmother  looked  at  me,  every  time  she  spoke  to 
me — worst  of  all  when  the  time  came  forme  to  co 
and  she  kissed  me,  somehow  so  much  more  tenderly 
than  usual,  and  murmured  some  words  I  could  not 
catch,  but  which  sounded  like  a  little  prayer,  as  she 


110  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

stroked  my  head  in  farewell  —  it  was  dreadfully  hard 
not  to  burst  into  tears  and  tell  her  all,  and  beg  her 
to  forgive  me.     But  I  went  away  without  doing  so. 

"  Half  way  home  a  strange  thought  came  suddenly 
into  my  mind.  It  seemed  to  express  the  unhappi- 
ness  I  was  feeling.  Supposing  my  grandmother  were 
to  die,  supposing  I  were  never  to  see  her  again,  would 
I  then  feel  satisfied  with  my  behaviour  to  her,  and 
would  I  still  say  to  myself  that  I  had  done  all  for  the 
best  in  spending  my  money  on  a  new  cup?  Would 
I  not  then  rather  feel  that  it  would  have  been  less 
grievous  to  my  grandmother  to  know  of  my  breaking 
twenty  cups,  than  to  discover  the  concealment  and 
want  of  candour  into  which  my  cowardliness  had 
led  me  ? 

" '  If  grandmother  were  dead,  I  suppose  she  would 
know  all  about  it,'  I  said  to  myself.  '  I  would  not 
like  to  think  of  that.  I  would  rather  have  told  her 
myself.' 

"  And  I  startled  my  father  by  turning  to  him  sud- 
denly and  asking  if  grandmother  was  very  old.  He 
replied,  '  Not  so  very.  Of  course  she  is  not  young, 
but  we  may  hope  to  have  her  among  us  many  a  day 
yet  if  God  wills  it,  my  little  woman.' 

"  I  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  '  I  know  she  is  very 
strong,'  I  said.  '  She  is  very  seldom  ill,  and  she  can 
take  quite  long  walks  still.' 

" '  Thank  God  for  it,'  said  my  father,  evidently 
pleased  with  my  interest  in  my  grandmother.  And 
although  it  was  true  that  already  I  was  beginning  to 
love  her  much  more  than  formerly,  still  my  father's 


grandmother's  story.  Ill 

manner  gave  ine  again  the  miserable  feeling  that  I 
was  gaining  credit  which  I  did  not  deserve. 

"  More  than  a  week  passed  after  this  without  my 
seeing  my  grandmother.  It  was  not  a  happy  week 
for  me.  I  felt  quite  unlike  my  old  light-hearted  self. 
And  constantly  —  just  as  when  one  has  a  tender  spot 
anywhere,  a  sore  finger  for  instance,  everything  seems 
to  rub  against  it  —  constantly  little  allusions  were 
made  which  appeared  to  have  some  reference  to  my 
concealment.  Something  would  be  said  about  my 
birthday  present,  and  my  brothers  would  ask  me  if  I 
had  made  up  my  mind  what  I  should  buy  with  it, 
or  they  would  tease  me  about  my  sudden  fancy  for 
spending  two  days  together  with  my  grandmother, 
and  ask  me  if  I  was  not  in  a  hurry  to  go  to  see 
her  again.  I  grew  irritable  and  suspicious,  and  more 
and  more  unhappy,  and  before  long  those  about  me 
began  to  notice  the  change.  My  father  and  mother 
feared  I  was  ill  —  'Nelly  is  so  unlike  herself,'  I  heard 
them  say.  My  brothers  openly  declared  '  there  was 
no  fun  in  playing  with  me  now,  I  had  grown  so 
cross.'  I  felt  that  it  was  true  —  indeed  both  opin- 
ions were  true,  for  I  really  was  getting  ill  with  the 
weight  on  my  mind,  which  never,  night  or  day, 
seemed  to  leave  it. 

"At  hist  one  day  my  father  told  me  that  he  was 
going  to  drive  into  the  little  town  where  my  grand- 
mother lived,  the  next  day,  and  that  I  was  to  go  with 
him  to  see  her.  I  noticed  that  lie  did  not  ask  me,  as 
usual,  if  I  would  like  to  go;  he  just  said  I  must  be 
ready  by  a  certain  hour,  and  gave  me  no  choice  in 


112  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

the  matter.  I  did  not  want  to  go,  but  I  was  afraid 
of  making  any  objection  for  fear  of  their  asking  my 
reasons,  so  I  said  nothing,  but  silently,  and  to  all 
appearance  I  fear,  sulkily,  got  ready  as  my  father 
desired.  We  had  a  very  quiet  drive ;  my  father 
made  no  remarks  about  my  dullness  and  silence,  and 
I  began  to  be  afraid  that  something  had  been  found 
out,  and  that  he  was  taking  me  to  my  grandmother's 
to  be  '  scolded,'  as  I  called  it  in  my  silly  little  mind. 
I  glanced  up  at  his  face  as  I  sat  beside  him.  No,  he 
did  not  look  severe,  only  grave  and  rather  anxious. 
Dear  father !  Afterwards  I  found  that  he  and  my 
mother  had  been  really  very  anxious  about  me,  and 
that  he  was  taking  me  to  my  grandmother,  by  her 
express  wish,  to  see  what  she  thought  of  the  state  of 
matters,  before  consulting  a  doctor  or  trying  change 
of  air,  or  anything  of  that  kind.  And  my  grand- 
mother had  particularly  asked  him  to  say  nothing 
more  to  myself  about  my  own  unsatisfactory  condi- 
tion, and  had  promised  him  to  do  her  utmost  to  put 
things  right. 

"Well — we  got  to  my  grandmother's  —  my  father 
lifted  me  out  of  the  carriage,  and  I  followed  him  up- 
stairs—  my  grandmother  was  sitting  in  the  drawing- 
room,  evidently  expecting  us.  She  came  forward 
with  a  bright  kind  smile  on  her  face,  and  kissed  me 
fondly.  Then  she  said  to  my  father  she  was  so  glad 
he  had  brought  me,  and  she  hoped  I  would  have  a 
happy  day.  And  my  father  looked  at  me  as  he  went 
away  with  a  sort  of  wistful  anxiety  that  made  me 
again  have  that  horrible  feeling  of  not  deserving  his 


GRANDMOTHER'S    STORY.  113 

care  and  affection.  And  oh,  how  I  wished  the  long- 
day  alone  with  my  grandmother  were  over !  I  could 
not  bear  being  in  the  drawing-room,  I  was  afraid  of 
seeming  to  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  china  cup- 
board ;  I  felt  miserable  whenever  my  grandmother 
spoke  kindly  to  me. 

"  And  how  kind  she  was  that  day !  If  ever  a  little 
girl  should  have  been  happy,  that  little  girl  was  I. 
Grandmother  let  me  look  over  the  drawers  where  she 
kept  her  beautiful  scraps  of  silk  and  velvet,  ever  so 
many  of  which  she  gave  me  —  lovely  pieces  to  make 
a  costume  such  as  I  had  fancied  for  Lady  Rosabelle, 
but  which  I  had  never  had  the  heart  to  see  about. 
She  let  me  '  tidy '  her  best  work-box  —  a  wonderful 
box,  full  of  every  conceivable  treasure  and  curiosity 
—  and  then,  when  I  was  a  little  tired  with  all  my 
exertions,  she  made  me  sit  down  on  a  footstool  at  her 
feet  and  talked  to  me  so  nicely  —  all  about  when  she 
was  a  little  girl  —  fancy  that,  Molly,  your  great-great- 
grandmother  ever  having  been  a  little  girl!  —  and 
about  the  queer  legends  and  fairy  tales  that  in  those 
days  were  firmly  believed  in  in  the  far-away  Scotch 
country  place  where  her  childhood  was  spent.  For 
the  first  time  for  all  these  unhappy  ten  days  I  began 
to  feel  like  myself  again.  Sitting  there  at  my  grand- 
mother's feet  listening  to  her  I  actually  forgot  my 
troubles,  though  I  was  in  the  very  drawing-room  I 
had  learnt  so  to  dread,  within  a  few  yards  of  the  cup- 
board I  dared  not  even  glance  at. 

I'  There  came  a  little  pause  in  the  conversation  ;  I 
leaned  my  head  against  my  grandmother's  knee. 


114  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

"  '  I  wish  there  were  fairies  now,'  I  said.  '  Don't 
you,  grandmother  ? ' 

"  Grandmother  said  '  no,  on  the  whole  she  preferred 
things  being  as  they  were.'  There  were  some  fairies 
certainly  she  would  be  sorry  to  lose,  Princess  Sweet- 
temper,  and  Lady  Make-the-best-of-it,  and  old  Madame 
Tidy,  and,  most  of  all  perhaps,  the  beautiful  fairy 
Candour.  I  laughed  at  her  funny  way  of  saying 
things,  but  yet  something  in  her  last  words  made  the 
uneasy  feeling  come  back  again.  Then  my  grand- 
mother went  on  talking  in  a  different  tone. 

" '  Do  you  know,  Nelly,'  she  said,  '  queer  things 
happen  sometimes  that  one  would  be  half  inclined  to 
put  down  to  fairies  if  one  did  not  know  better  ? ' 

"  I  pricked  up  my  ears. 

" '  Do  tell  me  what  sort  of  things,  grandmother,'  I 
said  eagerly. 

"  '  Well '  —  she  went  on,  speaking  rather  slowly 
and  gravely,  and  very  distinctly  —  '  the  other  day 
an  extraordinary  thing  happened  among  my  china 
cups  in  that  cupboard  over  there.  I  had  one  pink 
cup,  on  the  side  of  which  was  —  or  is  —  the  picture  of 
a  shepherdess  curtseying  to  a  shepherd.  Now  this 
shepherdess  when  I  bought  the  cup,  which  was  only 
a  few  days  ago,  was  dressed  —  I  am  perfectly  certain 
of  it,  for  her  dress  was  just  the  same  as  one  I  have 
upstairs  in  my  collection  —  in  a  pale  pink  or  salmon- 
coloured  skirt,  looped  up  over  a  pea-green  slip  —  the 
picture  of  the  shepherdess  is  repeated  again  on  the 
saucer,  and  there  it  still  is  as  I  tell  you.  But 
the  strangest  metamorphosis  has  taken  place  in  the 


grandmother's  story.  115 

cup.  I  left  it  one  morning  as  I  describe,  for  you 
know  I  always  dust  my  best  china  myself.  Two 
days  after,  when  I  looked  at  it  again,  the  shep- 
herdess's attire  was  changed  —  she  had  on  no  longer 
the  pea-green  dress  over  the  salmon,  but  a  salmon 
dress  over  a  pea-green  slip.  Did  you  ever  hear  any- 
thing so  strange,  Nelly  ?  ' 

"  I  turned  .away  my  head,  children  ;  I  dared  not 
look  at  my  grandmother.  What  should  I  say?  This 
was  the  end  of  my  concealment.  It  had  done  no 
good  —  grandmother  must  know  it  all  now,  I  could 
hide  it  no  longer,  and  she  would  be  far,  far  more 
angry  than  if  at  the  first  I  had  bravely  confessed  my 
disobedience  and  its  consequences.  I  tried  to  speak, 
but  I  could  not.    I  burst  into  tears  and  hid  my  face. 

"  Grandmother's  arm  was  round  me  in  a  moment, 
and  her  kind  voice  saying,  '  Why,  what  is  the  matter, 
my  little  Nelly?' 

"'- 1  drew  myself  away  from  her,  and  threw  myself 
on  the  floor,  crying  out  to  grandmother  not  to  speak 
kindly  to  me. 

" '  You  won't  love  me  when  you  know,'  I  said. 
'  You  will  never  love  me  again.  It  was  me,  oh 
grandmother !  It  was  me  that  changed  the  cup. 
I  got  another  for  you  not  to  know.  I  spent  all  my 
money.  I  broke  it,  grandmother.  When  you  told 
me  not  to  open  the  cupboard,  I  did  open  it,  and  I 
took  out  the  cup,  and  it  fell  and  was  broken,  and 
then  I  saw  another  in  a  shop  window,  and  I  thought 
it  was  just  the  same,  and  I  bought  it.  It  cost  ten 
shillings,  but  I  never  knew  it  wasn't  quite  the  same, 


116  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

only  now  it  doesn't  matter.  You  will  never  love  me 
again,  and  nobody  will.  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  what  shall 
I  do  ? ' 

"'Never  love  you  again,  my  poor  dear  faithless 
little  girl,'  said  grandmother.  '  Oh,  Nelly,  my  child, 
how  little  you  know  me !  But  oh,  I  am  so  glad  you 
have  told  me  all  about  it  yourself.  That  was  what  I 
was  longing  for.  I  did  so  want  my  little  girl  to  be 
true  to  her  own  honest  heart.' 

"  And  then  she  went  on  to  explain  that  she  had 
known  it  all  from  the  first.  She  had  not  been  asleep 
the  day  that  I  disobediently  opened  the  cupboard,  at 
least  she  had  wakened  up  in  time  to  see  what  had 
happened,  and  she  had  earnestly  hoped  that  I  would 
make  up  my  mind  to  tell  it  frankly.  That  was  what 
had  so  disappointed  her  the  next  day  when  she  had 
quite  thought  I  had  come  on  purpose  to  tell  it  all. 
Then  when  my  father  had  come  to  consult  her  about 
the  queer  state  I  seemed  to  be  in,  she  had  not  felt 
surprised.  She  had  quite  understood  it  all,  though 
she  had  not  said  so  to  him,  and  she  had  resolved  to 
try  to  win  my  confidence.  She  told  me  too  that  she 
had  found  out  from  the  old  German  about  my  buying 
the  cup,  whose  reappearance  she  could  not  at  first 
explain. 

" '  I  went  to  his  shop  the  very  next  morning,'  she 
told  me,  '  to  see  if  he  still  had  the  fellow  to  the  cup 
I  had  bought,  as  I  knew  he  had  two  of  them,  and  he 
told  me  the  other  had  been  bought  by  a  little  girl. 
Ten  shillings  was  too  much  to  give  for  it,  Nelly,  a 
great  deal  too  much  for  you  to  give,  and  more  than 


grandmother's  story.  117 

the  cup  was  really  worth.  It  was  not  a  very  valua- 
ble cup,  though  the  colour  was  so  pretty  that  I  was 
tempted  to  buy  it  to  place  among  the  others.' 

"  '  I  don't  mind  about  the  money,  grandmother,' 
I  replied.  '  I  would  have  given  ever  so  much  more 
if  I  had  had  it.  You  will  keep  the  cup  now  ? '  I 
added.  '  You  won't  make  me  take  it  back  to  the 
old  man?  And  oh,  grandmother,  will  you  really 
forgive  me  ? ' 

"  She  told  me  she  had  already  done  so,  fully  and 
freely,  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart.  And  she  said 
she  would  indeed  keep  the  cup,  as  long  as  she  lived, 
and  that  if  ever  again  I  was  tempted  to  distrust  her 
I  must  look  at  it  and  take  courage.  And  she  ex- 
plained to  me  that  even  if  there  had  been  reason  for 
my  fears,  '  even  if  I  had  been  a  very  harsh  and  severe 
grandmother,  your  concealment  would  have  done  no 
good  in  the  end,'  she  said.  '  It  would  have  been  like 
the  first  little  tiny  seed  of  deceit,  which  might  have 
grown  into  a  great  tree  of  evil,  poisoning  all  your  life. 
Oh,  Nelly,  never  never  plant  that  seed,  for  once  it  has 
taken  root  who  can  say  how  difficult  it  may  be  to  tear 
it  up?' 

"  I  listened  with  all  my  attention  ;  I  could  not 
help  being  deeply  impressed  with  her  earnestness, 
and  I  was  so  grateful  for  her  kindness  that  her  advice 
found  good  soil  ready  to  receive  it.  And  how  man}r, 
many  times  in  my  life  have  I  not  recalled  it !  For, 
Ralph  and  Sylvia  and  Molly,  my  darlings,  remember 
ll lis — even  to  the  naturally  frank  and  honest  there 
come  times  of  sore  temptation  in  life,  times  when  a 


118  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

little  swerving  from  the  straight  narrow  path  of  up- 
rightness would  seem  to  promise  to  put  all  straight 
when  things  have  gone  wrong,  times  when  the  cost 
seems  so  little  and  the  gain  so  great.  Ah !  yes, 
children,  we  need  to  have  a  firm  anchor  to  hold 
by  at  these  times,  and  woe  for  us  then  if  the  little 
evil  seed  has  been  planted  and  has  taken  root  in  our 
hearts." 

Grandmother  paused.  The  children  too  were 
silent  for  a  moment  or  two.  Then  Sylvia  said 
gently, 

"  Did  you  tell  your  father  and  mother  all  about  it, 
grandmother  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  grandmother,  "  I  did  —  all  about  it. 
I  told  them  everything.  It  was  my  own  choice.  My 
grandmother  left  it  to  myself.  She  would  not  tell 
them;  she  would  leave  it  to  me.  And,  of  course,  I 
did  tell  them.  I  could  not  feel  happy  till  I  had  done 
so.  They  were  very  kind  about  it,  very  kind,  but 
still  it  was  to  my  grandmother  I  felt  the  most  grate- 
ful and  the  most  drawn.  From  that  time  till  her 
death,  when  I  was  nearly  grown  up,  she  was  my 
dearest  counsellor  and  guide.  I  had  no  concealment 
from  her  —  I  told  her  everything.  For  her  heart 
was  so  wonderfully  young ;  to  the  very  last  she  was 
able  to  sympathise  in  all  my  girlish  joys,  and  sorrows, 
and  difficulties." 

"  Like  you,  grandmother  dear,"  said  Molly,  softly 
stroking  her  grandmother's  hand,  which  she  had  taken 
in  hers.     "  She  must  have  been  just  like  you." 

They  all  smiled. 


grandmother's  story.  119 

"  And  when  she  died,"  pursued  grandmother  gently, 
almost  as  if  speaking  to  herself,  "  when  she  died  and 
all  her  things  were  divided,  I  begged  them  to  give 
me  the  pink  cup.  I  might  have  had  a  more  valuable 
one  instead,  but  I  preferred  it.  It  is  one  of  those  two 
over  there  on  the  little  cabinet." 

Molly's  eyes  turned  eagerly  in  the  direction  of  the 
little  cabinet.  "  Grandmother  dear,"  she  said,  sol- 
emnly, "when  you  die  —  I  don't  want  you  to  die, 
you  know  of  course,  but  when  you  do  die,  I  wish  you 
would  say  that  /  may  have  that  cup  —  will  you  ?  To 
remind  me,  you  know,  of  what  you  have  been  telling 
us.  I  quite  understand  how  you  mean  :  that  day  all 
my  brooches  were  broken,  I  did  awfully  want  not  to 
tell  you  about  them  all,  and  I  might  forget,  jom  see, 
about  the  little  bad  seed  and  all  that,  that  you  have 
been  telling  us  so  nicely.  Please,  grandmother  dear, 
may  I  have  that  cup  when  you  die  ?  " 

"  Molly,"  said  Sylvia,  her  face  growing  very  red, 
"  it  is  perfectly  horrible  of  you  to  talk  that  way.  I 
am  quite  ashamed  of  you.  Don't  mind  her,  grand- 
mother. She  just  talks  as  if  she  had  no  sense 
sometimes.  How  can  you,  Molly  ? "  she  went  on, 
turning  again  to  her  sister,  "  how  can  you  talk  about 
dear  grandmother  dying?  Dear  grandmother,  and 
you  pretend  to  love  her." 

Molly's  big  blue  eyes  opened  wide  with  astonish- 
ment, then  gradually  they  grew  misty,  and  great  tears 
welled  up  to  their  surface. 

"  I  don't,  pre  fend —  I  do  love  her,"  she  said.  "  And 
I   don't  want  you  to  die,  grandmother  dear,  do  I  ? 


120  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

only  we  all  must  die  some  time.  I  didn't  mean  to 
talk  horribly.  I  think  you  are  very  unkind,  Sylvia." 
"  Children,  children,"  said  grandmother's  gentle 
voice,  "  I  don't  like  these  words.  I  am  sure  Molly 
did  not  mean  anything  I  would  not  like,  Sylvia  dear, 
but  yet  I  know  how  you  mean.  Don't  be  in  such  a 
hurry  to  judge  each  other.  And  about  the  cup, 
Molly,  I'll  consider,  though  I  hope  and  believe  you 
will  not  need  it  to  remind  you  of  the  lesson  I  want 
to  impress  on  you  by  the  story  of  my  long-ago 
troubles.  Now  kiss  each  other,  dears,  and  kiss  me, 
for  it  is  quite  bed-time.  Good-night,  my  little  girls. 
Ralph,  my  boy,  open  the  door  for  your  sisters,  and 
pleasant  dreams  to  you  all." 


CHAPTER   IX. 

Ralph's  confidence. 

"  Sad  case  it  is,  as  you  may  think 
For  very  cold  to  go  to  bed  ; 
And  then  for  cold  not  sleep  a  wink." 

Wordsworth's  Goody  Blake. 

"Grandmother,"  said  Ralph,  when  they  were  all 
sitting  at  breakfast  the  next  morning,  "didn't  you  say 
that  your  grandmother  once  had  an  adventure  that 
we  might  like  to  hear?  It  was  at  the  beginning  of 
the  story  you  told  us  —  I  think  it  was  something 
about  the  corkscrew  staircase.  I  liked  the  story 
awfully,  you  know,  but  I'm  fearfully  fond  of  ad- 
ventures." 

Grandmother  smiled. 

"  I  remember  saying  something  about  it,"  she 
said,  "but  it  is  hardly  worth  calling  an  adventure, 
my  boy.  It  showed  her  courage  and  presence  of 
mind,  however.    She  was  a  very  brave  little  woman." 

"Presence  of  mind,"  repeated  Ralph.  "Ah  yes! 
that's  a  good  thing  to  have.  There's  a  fellow  at  our 
school  who  saved  a  child  from  being  burnt  to  death 
not  long  ago.  It  was  his  little  cousin  where  he 
lives.  It  wasn't  he  that  told  me  about  it,  he's  too 
modest,  it  was  some  of  the  other  fellows." 

"Who  is  he?  what's  his  name?"  asked  Molly. 
121 


122  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

"  Prosper  de  Lastre,"  repeated  Ralph.  "  He's  an 
awful  good  fellow  every  way." 

"  Prosper  de  Lastre ! "  repeated  Molly,  who  pos- 
sessed  among  other  peculiarities  that  of  a  sometimes 
most  inconveniently  good  memory.  "  Prosper  de 
Lastre !  I  do  believe,  Ralph,  that's  the  very  boy  you 
called  a  cad  when  you  first  went  to  school." 

Ralph's  face  got  very  red,  and  he  seemed  on  the 
verge  of  a  hasty  reply.     But  he  controlled  himself. 

"  Well,  and  if  I  did,"  he  said  somewhat  gruffly, 
"  a  fellow  may  be  mistaken,  mayn't  he  ?  I  don't 
think  him  a  cad  now,  and  that's  all  about  it." 

Molly  was  preparing  some  rejoinder  when  grand- 
mother interrupted  her. 

"  You  are  quite  right,  Ralph,  quite  right  not  to  be 
above  owning  yourself  mistaken.  Who  can  be  above 
it  really?  not  the  wisest  man  that  ever  lived.  And 
Molly,  my  dear  little  girl,  why  can  you  not  learn  to 
be  more  considerate  ?  Do  you  know  what  '  tact '  is, 
Molly  ?     Did  you  ever  hear  of  it  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  grandmother  dear,"  said  Molly  serenely. 
"It  means  —  it  means — oh  I  don't  quite  know,  but 
I'm  sure  I  do  know." 

"  Think  of  it  as  meaning  the  not  saying  or  doing 
to  another  person  whatever  in  that  other's  place  you 
would  not  like  said  or  done  to  you  —  that  is  one 
meaning  of  tact  anyway,  and  a  very  good  one.  Will 
you  try  to  remember  it,  Molly?" 

Molly  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  grandmother  dear,  I  will  try.  But  I  think 
all  that  will  be  rather  hard  to  remember,  because  you 


kalph's  confidence.  123 

see  people  don't  feel  the  same.  My  head  isn't 
twisty-turny  enough  to  understand  things  like  that, 
quickly.  I  like  better  to  go  bump  at  them,  quite 
straight." 

"Without,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  the  faintest 
idea  what  you  are  going  to  go  bump  straight  at,"  said 
aunty,  laughing.     "Oh,  Molly,  you  are  irresistible  !  " 

The  laughing  at  her  had  laughed  back  Ralph's 
good  humour  anyway,  and  now  he  returned  to  the 
charge. 

"  Twisty-turny  is  like  a  cockscrew,  grandmother," 
he  said  slyly,  "  and  once  there  was  an  old  house  with 
a  cockscrew  stair  — " 

"  Yes,"  said  grandmother,  "  and  in  that  old  house 
there  once  lived  an  old  lady,  who,  strange  to  say, 
was  not  always  old.  She  was  not  very  old  at  the 
time  of  the  '  adventure.'  You  remember,  children, 
my  telling  you  that  during  her  husband's  life,  my 
grandmother  and  he  used  to  spend  part  of  the  winter 
in  the  old  house  where  she  afterwards  ended  her 
days.  My  grandfather  used  to  drive  backwards  and 
forwards  to  his  farms,  of  which  he  had  several  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  the  town  was  a  sort  of  central 
place  for  the  season  of  bad  weather  and  short  days. 
Sometimes  he  used  to  be  kept  rather  late,  for  besides 
his  own  affairs,  he  had,  like  his  son,  my  father,  a 
good  deal  of  magistrate's  business  to  attend  to.  But 
however  late  he  was  detained  my  grandmother  always 
sat  up  for  him,  generally  in  a  little  sitting-room  she 
had  on  the  storey  above  the  long  drawing-room  I 
have  described  to  you,  almost,  that  is  to  say,  at  the 


124  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

top  of  the  house,  from  attic  to  basement  of  which 
ran  the  long  '  twisty-turny,  corkscrew  staircase.' 
One  evening,  about  Christmas  time  it  was,  I  think, 
my  grandfather  was  veiy  late  of  coming  home.  My 
grandmother  was  not  uneasy,  for  he  had  told  her  he 
would  be  late,  and  she  had  mentioned  it  to  the 
servants,  and  told  them  they  need  not  sit  up.  So 
there  she  was,  late  at  night,  alone,  sewing  most  likely 
—  ah  girls,  I  wish  I  could  show  you  some  of  her 
sewing  —  in  her  little  parlour.  She  was  not  the 
least  nervous,  yet  it  was  a  little  '  eerie '  perhaps, 
sitting  up  there  alone  so  late,  listening  for  her 
husband's  whistle  —  he  always  whistled  when  he  was 
late,  so  that  she  might  be  sure  it  was  he,  when  she 
went  down  to  open  the  door  at  his  knock  —  and 
more  than  once  she  looked  at  the  clock  and  wished 
he  would  come.  Suddenly  a  step  outside  the  room, 
coming  up  the  stair,  made  her  start.  She  had  hardly 
time  to  wonder  confusedly  if  it  could  be  my  grand- 
father, knowing  all  the  time  it  could  not  be  he  —  the 
doors  were  all  supposed  to  be  locked  and  barred,  and 
could  only  be  opened  from  the  inside  —  when  the 
door  was  flung  open  and  some  one  looked  in.  Not 
my  grandfather  certainly ;  the  man  who  stood  in  the 
doorway  was  dressed  in  some  sort  of  rough  work- 
man's clothes,  and  his  face  was  black  and  grimy. 
That  was  all  she  had  time  to  catch  sight  of,  for,  not 
expecting  to  see  her  there,  the  intruder,  startled, 
turned  sharply  round  and  made  for  the  stair.  Up 
jumped  my  little  grandmother  ;  she  took  it  all  in  in 
an  instant,  and  saw  that  her  only  chance  was  to  take 


RALPH'S   CONFIDENCE.  125 

advantage  of  his  momentary  surprise  and  start  at 
seeing  her.  Up  she  jumped  and  rushed  bravely  after 
him,  making  all  the  clatter  she  could.  Downstairs 
he  flew,  imagining  very  probably  in  his  fright  that 
two  or  three  people  instead  of  one  little  woman  were 
at  his  heels,  and  downstairs,  round  and  round  the 
corkscrew  staircase,  she  flew  after  him.  Never  after- 
wards, she  has  often  since  told  me,  did  she  quite  lose 
the  association  of  that  wild  flight,  never  could  she  go 
downstairs  in  that  house  without  the  feeling  of  the 
man  before  her,  and  seemino-  to  hear  the  rattle-rattle 
of  a  leathern  apron  he  was  wearing,  which  clattered 
against  the  banisters  as  he  ran.  But  she  kept  her 
head  to  the  end  of  the  chase  ;  she  followed  him  —  all 
in  the  dark,  remember  —  down  to  the  bottom  of  the 
staircase,  and,  guided  by  the  clatter  of  his  apron, 
through  a  back  kitchen  in  the  basement  which 
opened  into  a  yard  —  there  she  stopped  —  she  heard 
him  clatter  through  this  cellar,  banging  the  door  — 
which  had  been  left  open,  and  through  which  he  had 
evidently  made  his  way  into  the  house  —  after  him, 
as  if  to  prevent  her  following  him  farther.  Poor 
thing,  she  certainly  had  no  wish  to  do  so ;  she  felt 
her  way  to  the  door  and  felt  for  the  key  to  lock  it 
securely.  But  alas,  when  she  pushed  the  door 
closely  to,  preparatory  to  locking  it,  it  resisted  her. 
Some  one  or  something  seemed  to  push  against  her 
from  the  outside.  Then  for  the  first  time  her 
courage  gave  way,  and  thinking  that  the  man  had 
returned,  with  others  perhaps,  she  grew  sick  and 
faint  with  fright.     She  sank  down  helplessly  on  the 


126  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

ttoor  for  a  moment  or  two.  But  all  seemed  quiet; 
her  courage  and  common  sense  returned ;  she  got  up 
and  felt  all  about  the  door  carefully,  to  try  to 
discover  the  obstacle.  To  her  delight  she  found  that 
some  loose  sand  or  earth  driven  into  a  little  heap  on 
the  floor  was  what  prevented  the  door  shutting. 
She  smoothed  it  away  with  her  hand,  closed  the  door 
and  locked  it  firmly,  and  then,  faint  and  trembling, 
but  safe,  made  her  way  back  to  the  little  room  where 
her  light  was  burning.  You  can  fancy  how  glad  she 
was,  a  very  few  moments  afterwards,  to  hear  my 
grandfather's  cheerful  whistle  outside." 

"  But,"  interrupted  Molly,  her  eyes  looking  bigger 
and  rounder  than  usual,  "  but  suppose  the  man  had 
been  waiting  outside  to  catch  him  —  your  grandfather 
—  grandmother,  when  he  came  in?" 

"  But  the  man  wasn't  doing  anything  of  the  sort, 
my  dear  Molly.  He  had  gone  off  in  a  fright,  and 
when  my  grandmother  thought  it  over  coolly,  she 
felt  convinced  that  he  was  not  a  regular  burglar,  and 
so  it  turned  out.  He  was  a  man  who  worked  at  a 
smithy  near  by,  and  this  was  his  first  attempt  at 
burglary.  He  had  heard  that  my  grandfather  was  to 
be  out  late,  through  one  of  the  servants,  whom  he  had 
persuaded  not  to  lock  the  door,  on  the  pretence  that 
he  might  be  passing  and  would  look  in  to  say  good- 
night.    It  all  came  out  afterwards." 

"  And  was  he  put  in  prison  ?  "  said  Molly. 

"No,"  said  grandmother.  "The  punishments  for 
housebreaking  and  such  things  in  those  days  were 
so  frightfully  severe,  that  kind-hearted  people  often 


Ralph's  confidence.  127 

refrained  from  accusing  the  wrong-doers.  This  man 
had  been  in  sore  want  of  money  for  some  reason  or 
other ;  he  was  not  a  dishonest  character.  I  believe 
the  end  of  it  was  that  my  grandfather  forgave  him, 
and  put  him  in  the  way  of  doing  better." 

"  That  was  very  nice,"  said  Molly,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Ralph,  who  was  just  then  strap- 
ping his  books  together  for  school.  "  Thank  you  for 
the  story,  grandmother.  If  it  is  fine  this  afternoon," 
he  added,  "  may  I  stay  out  later  ?  I  want  to  go  a 
walk  into  the  country." 

"  Certainly,  my  boy,"  said  grandmother.  "  But 
you'll  be  home  by  dinner." 

"  All  right,"  said  Ralph,  as  he  marched  off. 

"  And  grandmother,  please,"  said  Sylvia,  "  may 
Molly  and  I  go  out  with  Marcelline  this  afternoon 
to  do  some  shopping?  The  pretty  Christmas  things 
are  coming  in  now,  and  we  have  lots  to  do." 

"  Certainly,  my  dears,"  said  grandmother  again,  and 
about  two  o'clock  the  little  girls  set  off,  one  on  each 
side  of  good-natured  Marcelline,  in  high  spirits,  to  do 
their  Christmas  shopping. 

Grandmother  watched  them  from  the  window, 
and  thought  how  pretty  they  looked,  and  the  thought 
carried  her  back  to  the  time  —  not  so  very  long  ago 
did  it  seem  to  her  now —  when  their  mother  had  been 
just  as  bright  and  happy  as  they  —  the  mother  who 
had  never  lived  to  see  them  more  than  babies. 
Grandmother's  eyes  Idled  with  tears,  but  she  smiled 
through  the  tears. 


128  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

"  God  is  good  and  sends  new  blessings 
When  the  old  He  takes  away," 

she  whispered  to  herself.  It  was  a  blessing,  a  very 
great  blessing  and  pleasure  to  have  what  she  had  so 
often  longed  for,  the  care  of  her  dear  little  grand- 
daughters herself. 

"  And  Ralph,"  she  added,  "  I  cannot  help  feeling 
the  responsibility  with  him  even  greater.  An  old 
woman  like  me,  can  I  have  much  influence  with  a 
boy  ?  But  he  is  a  dear  boy  in  many  ways,  and  I  was 
pleased  with  the  way  he  spoke  yesterday.  It  was 
honest  and  manly.  Ah !  if  we  could  teach  our  boys 
what  true  manliness  is,  the  world  would  be  a  better 
place  than  it  is." 

The  days  were  beginning  to  close  in  now.  By 
four  o'clock  or  half-past  it  was  almost  dark,  and,  once 
the  sun  had  gone  down,  cold,  with  a  peculiar  biting 
coldness  not  felt  farther  north,  where  the  temperature 
is  more  equable  and  the  contrasts  less  sudden. 

Grandmother  put  on  her  fur-lined  cloak  and  set 
off  to  meet  the  little  market-women.  Once,  twice, 
thrice  she  walked  to  the  corner  of  the  road  —  they 
were  not  to  be  seen,  and  she  was  beginning  to  fear 
the  temptations  of  the  shops  had  delayed  them  unduly, 
when  they  suddenly  came  in  view  ;  and  the  moment 
they  caught  sight  of  her  familiar  figure  off  they  set, 
as  if  touched  at  the  same  instant  by  an  electric  thrill, 
running  towards  her  like  two  lapwings. 

"  Dear  grandmother,  how  good  of  you  to  come  to 
meet  us,"  said  Sylvia.  "  We  have  got  such  nice 
things.     They  are  in  Marcelline's  basket,"  nodding 


kalph's  confidence.  129 

back  towards  Marcelline,  jogging  along  after  them  in 
her  usual  deliberate  fashion. 

"  Such  nice  things,"  echoed  Molly.  "  But  oh, 
grandmother  dear,  you  don't  know  what  we  saw. 
We  met  Ralph  in  the  town,  and  I'm  sure  he  didn't 
want  us  to  see  him,  for  what  do  you  think  he  was 
doing?" 

A  chill  went  through  poor  grandmother's  heart. 
In  an  instant  she  pictured  to  herself  all  manner 
of  scrapes  Ralph  might  have  got  into.  Had  her 
thoughts  of  him  this  very  afternoon  been  a  sort  of 
presentiment  of  evil  ?  She  grew  white,  so  white  that 
even  in  the  already  dusky  light,  Sylvia's  sharp  eyes 
detected  it,  and  she  turned  fiercely  to  Molly,  the 
heedless. 

"  You  naughty  girl,"  she  said,  "  to  go  and  frighten 
dear  little  grandmother  like  that.  And  only  this 
very  morning  or  yesterday  grandmother  was  explain- 
ing to  you  about  tact.  Don't  be  frightened,  dear 
grandmother.  Ralph  wasn't  doing  anything  naughty, 
only  I  daresay  he  didn't  want  us  to  see." 

"  But  what  was  he  doing?  "  said  grandmother,  and 
Molly,  irrepressible  still,  though  on  the  verge  of  sobs, 
made  answer  before  Sylvia  could  speak. 

"  He  was  carrying  wood,  grandmother  dear,"  she 
said  —  "  big-  bundles,  and  another  boy  with  him  too. 
I  think  they  had  been  out  to  the  little  forests  to  fetch 
it.  It  was  fagots.  But  I  didn't  mean  to  frighten 
you,  grandmother ;  I  didn't  know  it  was  untact  to  tell 
you  —  I  have  been  thinking  all  day  about  what  you 
told  me." 


130  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

"  Carrying  wood?"  repeated  grandmother,  relieved, 
though  mystified.  "  What  can  he  have  been  doing 
that  for  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  is  a  plan  of  his.  I  am  sure  it  is  nothing 
naughty,"  said  Sylvia,  nodding  her  head  sagely. 
"  And  if  Molly  will  just  leave  it  alone  and  say  nothing 
about  it,  it  will  be  all  right,  you  will  see.  Ralph 
will  tell  you  himself,  I'm  sure,  if  Molly  will  not 
tease." 

"  I  won't,  I  promise  you  I  won't,"  said  Molly ;  "  I 
won't  say  anything  about  it,  and  if  Ralph  asks  me  if 
we  saw  him  I'll  screw  up  my  lips  as  tight  as  tight, 
and  not  say  a  single  word." 

"  As  if  that  would  do  any  good,"  said  Sylvia  con- 
temptuously ;  "  it  would  only  make  him  think  we 
had  seen  him,  and  make  a  fuss.  However,  there's 
no  fear  of  Ralph  asking  you  anything  about  it. 
You  just  see  him  alone  when  he  comes  in,  grand- 
mother." 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,"  sighed  Molly,  as  they  returned 
to  the  house,  "  I  shall  never  understand  about  tact, 
never.  We've  got  our  lessons  to  do  for  to-morrow, 
Sylvia,  and  the  verbs  are  very  hard." 

"  Never  mind,  I'll  help  you,"  said  Sylvia  good- 
naturedly,  and  grandmother  was  pleased  to  see 
them  go  upstairs  to  their  little  study  with  their 
arms  round  each  other's  waists  as  usual  —  the  best 
of  friends. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Ralph  made  his  appearance. 
He  looked  rather  less  tidy  than  his  wont  —  for  as  a 
rule  Ralph  was  a  particularly  tidy  boy  —  his  hair  was 


In  the  Coppice. —  p.  131. 


Ralph's  confidence.  131 

tumbled,  and  his  hands  certainly  could  not  have  been 
described  as  clean. 

"  Well,  Ralph,  and  what  have  you  been  doing  with 
yourself?"  said  grandmother,  as  he  came  in. 

Ralph  threw  himself  down  on  the  rug. 

"  My  poor  rug,"  thought  grandmother,  but  she 
judged  it  wiser  not,  at  that  moment,  to  express  her 
misgivings  aloud. 

Ralph  did  not  at  once  reply.     Then  — 

"  Grandmother,"  he  said,  after  a  little  pause. 

"  Well,  my  boy  ?  " 

"  You  remember  my  calling  one  of  the  boys  in 
my  class  a  cad  —  what  Molly  began  about  last 
night?" 

"  Well,  my  boy?"  said  grandmother  again. 

"  Do  you  remember  what  made  me  call  him 
a  cad  ?  It  was  that  I  met  him  carrying  a  great 
bundle  of  wood  —  little  wood  they  call  it  —  along  the 
street  one  day.  Well,  just  fancy,  grandmother,  Tve 
been  doing  it  too.  That's  what  I  wanted  to  stay 
later  for  this  afternoon." 

Grandmother's  heart  gave  a  bound  of  pleasure  at 
her  boy's  frankness.  "  Sensible  child  Sylvia  is," 
she  said  to  herself.  But  aloud  she  replied  with 
a  smile, 

"  Carrying  wood  !  what  did  you  do  that  for,  and 
where  did  you  get  it?" 

"  I'll  tell  you,  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,"  said  Ralph. 
"  We  went  out  after  school  to  a  sort  of  little  coppice 
where  there  is  a  lot  of  that  nice  dry  brushwood  that 
anybody  may  take.     Prosper  knew   the    place,  and 


132  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

took  me.  It  was  to  please  him  I  went.  He  does  it 
every  Thursday ;  that  is  the  day  we  are  let  out  of 
school  early." 

"  And  what  does  he  do  it  for  ?  "  asked  grand- 
mother. "  Is  he  —  are  his  people  so  very  poor  that 
he  has  to  do  it?  I  thought  all  the  boys  were  of 
a  better  class,"  she  added,  with  some  inward  misgiv- 
ing as  to  what  Mr.  Heriott  might  say  as  to  his  son's 
present  companions. 

"  Oh,  so  they  are  —  at  least  they  are  not  what  you 
would  call  poor,"  said  Ralph.  "  Prosper  belongs  to 
quite  rich  people.  But  he's  an  orphan ;  he  lives 
with  his  uncle,  and  I  suppose  he's  not  rich  —  Prosper 
himself,  I  mean  —  for  he  says  his  uncle's  always  tell- 
ino-  him  to  work  hard  at  school,  as  he  will  have  to 
light  his  way  in  the  world.  He  has  got  a  little  room 
up  at  the  top  of  the  house,  and  that's  what  put  it  into 
his  head  about  the  wood.  There's  an  old  woman, 
who  was  once  a  sort  of  a  lady,  who  lives  in  the  next 
room  to  his.  You  get  up  by  a  different  stair ;  it's 
really  a  different  house,  but  once,  somehow,  the  top 
rooms  were  joined,  and  there's  still  a  door  between 
Prosper's  room  and  this  old  woman's,  and  one  morning 
early  he  heard  her  crying  —  she  was  really  crying, 
grandmother,  she's  so  old  and  shaky,  he  sa}rs —  because 
she  couldn't  get  her  fire  to  light.  He  didn't  know  what 
she  was  crying  for  at  first,  but  he  peeped  through  the 
keyhole  and  saw  her  fumbling  away  with  damp  paper 
and  stuff  that  wouldn't  light  the  big  logs.  So  he 
thought  and  thought  what  he  could  do  —  he  hasn't 
any  money  hardly  —  and  at  last  he  thought  he'd  go 


ealph's  confidence.  133 

and  see  what  he  could  find.  And  he  found  a  beautiful 
place  for  brushwood,  and  he  carried  back  all  he  could, 
and  since  then  every  Thursday  he  goes  out  to  that 
place.  But,  of  course,  one  fellow  alone  can't  carry 
much,  and  you  should  have  seen  how  pleased  he  was 
when  I  said  I'd  go  with  him.  But  I  thought  I'd 
better  tell  you.     You  don't  mind,  grandmother  ?  " 

Grandmother's  eyes  looked  vevy  bright  as  she  re- 
plied. "  Mind,  my  Ralph  ?  No,  indeed.  I  am  only 
glad  you  should  have  so  manly  and  self-denying  an 
example  as  Prosper's,  and  still  more  glad  that  you 
should  have  the  right  feeling  and  moral  courage  to 
follow  it.  Poor  old  woman  !  is  she  quite  alone  in  the 
world  ?  She  must  be  very  grateful  to  her  little  next- 
door  neighbour." 

"  I  don't  know  that  she  is  —  at  least  not  so  very," 
said  Ralph.  "  The  fun  of  it  was,  that  for  ever  so 
long  she  didn't  know  where  the  little  wood  came 
from.  Prosper  found  a  key  that  opened  the  door, 
and  when  she  was  out  he  carried  in  the  fagots,  and 
laid  the  fire  all  ready  for  her  with  some  of  them ; 
and  when  she  came  in  he  peeped  through  the  key- 
hole. She  was  so  surprised,  she  couldn't  make  it 
out.  And  the  wood  he  had  fetched  lasted  a  week, 
and  then  he  got  some  more.  But  the  next  time  she 
found  him  out." 

"  And  what  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  At  first  she  was  rather  offended,  till  he  explained 
how  he  had  got  it ;  and  then  she  thanked  him,  of 
course,  but  not  so  very  much,  I  fancy.  He  always 
says  old  people  are  grumpy  —  doesn't  'grogneur'  mean 


134  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

grumpy,  grandmother  ?  —  that  they  can't  help  it,  and 
when  his  old  woman  is  grumpy  he  only  laughs  a  lit- 
tle. But  you  re  not  grumpy,  grandmother,  and  you're 
old ;  at  least  getting  rather  old." 

"Decidedly  old,  my  boy.  But  why  should  I  be 
grumpy  ?  And  how  do  you  know  I  shouldn't  be  so 
if  I  were  living  up  alone  in  an  attic,  with  no  children 
to  love  and  cheer  me,  my  poor  old  hands  swollen 
and  twisted  with  rheumatism,  perhaps,  and  very 
little  money.  Ah,  what  a  sad  picture  !  Poor  old 
woman,  I  must  try  to  find  out  some  way  of  helping 
her." 

"  She  washes  lace  for  ladies,  Prosper  says,"  said 
Ralph,  eagerly.  "  Perhaps  if  you  had  some  lace  to 
wash,  grandmother." 

"I'll  see  what  I  can  do,"  said  grandmother.  "You 
get  me  her  name  and  address  from  Prosper.  And, 
Ralph,  we  might  think  of  something  for  a  little 
Christmas  present  for  her,  might  we  not?  You  must 
talk  to  your  friend  about  it.  I  suppose  his  relations 
are  not  likely  to  interest  themselves  in  his  protegee?" 

"  No,"  said  Ralph.  "  His  aunt  is  young,  and 
dresses  very  grandly,  and  I  don't  think  she  takes 
much  notice  of  Prosper  himself.  Oh  no,  you  could 
do  it  much  better  than  any  one  else,  grandmother ; 
find  out  all  about  her  and  what  she  would  like — in 
a  nice  sort  of  way,  you  know." 

Grandmother  drew  Ralph  to  her  and  kissed  him. 
"  My  own  dear  boy,"  she  said. 

Ralph  got  rather  red,  but  his  eyes  shone  with 
pleasure  nevertheless.     "  Grandmother,"  he  said,  half 


Ralph's  confidence.  135 

shyly,  "  I've  had  a  lesson  about  not  calling  fellows 
cads  in  a  hurry,  but  all  the  same  you  won't  forget 
about  telling  us  the  story  of  Uncle  Jack's  cad,  will 
you?" 

"  What  a  memory  you  have,  Ralph,"  said  grand- 
mother. "  You're  nearly  as  bad  for  stories  as  Molly. 
No,  I  haven't  forgotten.  As  well  as  I  could  remem- 
ber, I  have  written  out  the  little  story  —  I  only  wish 
I  had  had  it  in  your  uncle's  own  words.  But  such 
as  it  is,  I  will  read  it  to  you  all  this  evening." 

Grandmother  went  to  her  Davenport,  and  took  out 
from  one  of  the  drawers  some  sheets  of  ruled  paper, 
which  she  held  up  for  Ralph  to  see.  On  the  outside 
one  he  read,  in  grandmother's  neat,  clear  hand- 
writing, the  words  — 


CHAPTER   X. 

—  "  THAT   CAD    SAWYER." 

"  I  do  not  like  thee,  Doctor  Fell, 
The  reason  why  I  cannot  tell." 

Old  Rhyme. 

And  grandmother  of  course  kept  her  promise. 
That  evening  she  read  it  aloud. 

"  They  were  Ryeburn  boys  —  Ryeburn  boys  to 
their  very  heart's  core —  Jack  and  his  younger  brother 
Carlo,  as  somehow  he  had  got  to  be  called  in  the 
nursery,  before  he  could  say  his  own  name  plainly." 

"  That's  Uncle  Charlton,  who  died  when  he  was 
only  about  fifteen,"  whispered  Sylvia  to  Ralph  and 
Molly  ;  "  you  see  grandmother's  written  it  out  like  a 
regular  story  —  not  saying  '  your  uncle  this '  or  '  your 
uncle  that,'  every  minute.      Isn't  it  nice?" 

Grandmother  stopped  to  see  what  all  the  whisper- 
ing was  about. 

"  We  beg  your  pardon,  grandmother,  we'll  be  quite 
quiet  now,"  said  the  three  apologetically. 

"They  had  been  at  school  at  Ryeburn  since  they 
were  quite  little  fellows,  and  they  thought  that  no- 
where in  the  world  was  there  a  place  to  be  compared 
with  it.  Holidays  at  home  were  very  delightful,  no 
doubt,  but  school-days  were  delightful  too.  But  for 
the  sayings  of  good-byes  to  the  dear  people  left  at 
home  —  father  and  mother,  big  sister  and  little  one, 

136 


"THAT   CAD   SAWYER."  13T 

I  think  Jack  and  Carlo  started  for  their  return  journey 
to  school  at  the  end  of  the  midsummer  holidays  very 
nearly  as  cheerfully  as  they  had  set  off  for  home  eight 
weeks  previously,  when  these  same  delightful  holi- 
days had  begun.  Jack  had  not  very  many  more  half- 
years  to  look  forward  to :  he  was  to  be  a  soldier,  and 
before  long  must  leave  Ryeburn  in  preparation  for 
what  was  before  him,  for  he  was  fifteen  past.  Carlo 
was  only  thirteen  and  small  of  his  age.  He  had 
known  what  it  was  to  be  homesick,  even  at  Ryeburn, 
more  than  three  years  ago,  when  he  had  first  come 
there.  But  with  a  big  brother  —  above  all  a  big- 
brother  like  Jack,  great  strong  fellow  that  he  was, 
with  the  kindest  of  hearts  for  anything  small  or  weak 
—  little  Carlo's  preliminary  troubles  were  soon  over. 
And  now  at  thirteen  he  was  very  nearly,  in  his  way, 
as  great  a  man  at  Ryeburn  as  Jack  himself.  Jack 
was  by  no  means  the  cleverest  boy  at  the  school,  far 
from  it,  but  lie  did  his  book  work  fairly  well,  and 
above  all  honestly.  He  was  honesty  itself  in  every- 
thing, scorned  crooked  waj-s,  or  whatever  he  con- 
sidered meanness,  with  the  exaggerated  scorn  of  a 
very  young  and  untried  character,  and,  like  most 
boys  of  his  age,  was  inclined,  once  he  took  up  a  preju- 
dice, to  carry  it  to  all  lengths. 

"  There  was  but  one  cloud  over  their  return  to 
school  this  special  autumn  that  I  am  telling  you  of, 
and  that  was  the  absence  of  a  favourite  master  —  one 
of  the  younger  ones  —  who,  an  unexpected  piece  of 
good  luck  having  fallen  to  his  share,  had  left  Ryeburn 
the  end  of  the  last  half. 


138  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

" '  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  fellow  we  shall  have 
instead  of  Wyngate,'  said  Jack  to  Carlo,  as  the  train 
slackened  for  Ryeburn  station. 

" '  We  shan't  have  any  one  as  nice,  that's  certain,' 
said  Carlo,  lugubriously.  '  There  couldn't  be  any 
one  as  nice,  could  there  ?  ' 

"  But  their  lamentations  over  Mr.  Wyngate  were 
forgotten  when  they  found  themselves  in  the  midst 
of  their  companions,  most  of  whom  had  already 
arrived.  There  were  such  a  lot  of  things  to  tell  and 
to  ask ;  the  unfortunate  '  new  boys  '  to  glance  at 
with  somewhat  supercilious  curiosity,  and  the  usual 
legendary  caution  as  to  '  chumming '  with  them,  till 
it  should  be  proved  what  manner  of  persons  they 
were  ;  the  adventures  of  the  holidays  to  retail  to  one's 
special  cronies ;  the  anticipated  triumphs  in  cricket 
and  football  and  paper-chases  of  the  forthcoming 
'  half '  to  discuss.  Jack  and  Carlo  soon  found  them- 
selves each  the  centre  of  his  particular  set,  too  busy 
and  absorbed  in  the  present  to  give  much  thought  to 
the  past.  Only  later  that  evening,  when  prayers  were 
over  and  supper-time  at  hand,  did  the  subject  of  their 
former  teacher  and  his  successor  come  up  again. 

"  A  pale,  thin,  rather  starved-looking  young  man 
came  into  the  school-room  desiring  them  to  put  away 
their  books,  which  they  were  arranging  for  next 
morning.  His  manner  was  short  but  ill-assured,  and 
lie  spoke  with  a  slightly  peculiar  accent.  None  of 
the  boys  seemed  in  any  hurry  to  obey  him. 

"  '  Cod-faced  idiot ! '  muttered  one. 

iL '  French  frog  ! '  said  another. 


"THAT    CAD    SAWYER."  1-39 

"'Is  that  the  new  junior?'  said  Jack,  looking  up 
from  the  pile  of  books  before  him. 

"  '  Yes;  did  j-ou  ever  see  such  a  specimen  ?  *  replied 
a  tall  boy  beside  him,  who  had  arrived  the  day  be- 
fore. 'And  what  a  fellow  to  come  after  Wyngate 
too.' 

"  '  He  can't  help  his  looks,'  said  Jack  quietly ;  '  per- 
haps he's  better  than  they  are.' 

"  '  Hallo,  here's  old  Berkeley  going  to  stick  up  for 
that  nice  specimen  Sawyer ! '  called  out  the  boy, 
caring  little  apparently  whether  Mr.  Sawyer,  who 
had  only  just  left  the  room,  was  still  within  ear-shot 
or  not. 

"  Jack  took  it  in  good  part. 

"  w  I'm  not  "  sticking  up  "  for  him,  nor  "  not  sticking 
up  "  for  him,'  he  said.  '  All  I  say  is,  wait  a  bit  till 
you  see  what  sort  of  a  fellow  he  is  himself,  whatever 
his  looks  are.' 

" '  And  most  assuredly  they're  not  in  his  favour,' 
replied  the  tall  boy. 

"  From  this  Jack  could  not  honestly  dissent ;  Mr. 
Sawyer's  looks  were  not,  in  a  sense,  in  his  favour.  It 
was  not  so  much  that  he  was  downright  ugly  — per- 
haps that  would  have  mattered  less  —  but  he  was 
poor  looking.  He  had  no  presence,  no  self-assertion, 
and  his  very  anxiety  to  conciliate  gave  his  manner 
a  nervous  indecision,  in  which  the  boys  saw  nothing 
but  cause  for  ridicule.  He  did  not  understand  his 
pupils,  and  still  less  did  they  understand  him.  But 
all  tin'  s;une  Ik;  was  a  capital  teacher,  patient  and 
painstaking  to  the  last  degree,  clear-headed  himself, 


140  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

and  with  a  great  power,  when  he  forgot  his  nervous- 
ness in  the  interest  of  his  subject,  of  making  it  clear 
to  the  apprehensions  of  those  about  him.  In  class 
it  was  impossible  for  the  well-disposed  of  his  pupils 
not  to  respect  him,  and  in  time  he  might  have  fought 
his  way  to  more,  but  for  one  unfortunate  circum- 
stance —  the  unreasonable  and  unreasoning  prejudice 
against  him  throughout  the  whole  school. 

"  Now  our  boys  —  Jack  and  Carlo  —  Jack,  followed 
by  Carlo,  perhaps  I  should  say,  for  whatever  Jack 
said  Carlo  thought  right,  wherever  Jack  led  Carlo 
came  after  —  to  do  them  justice,  I  must  say,  did  not 
at  once  give  in  to  this  unreasonable  prejudice.  Jack 
stuck  to  his  resolution  to  judge  Sawyer  by  what  he 
found  him  to  be  on  further  acquaintance,  not  to  fly 
into  a  dislike  at  first  sight.  And  for  some  time  noth- 
ing occurred  to  shake  Jack's  opinion  that  not  im- 
probably the  new  master  was  better  than  his  looks. 
But  Sawyer  was  shy  and  reserved  ;  he  liked  Jack, 
and  was  in  his  heart  grateful  to  him  for  his  respectful 
and  friendly  behaviour,  and  for  the  good  example 
he  thereby  set  to  his  companions,  only,  unfortunately, 
the  junior  master  was  no  hand  at  expressing  his 
appreciation  of  such  conduct.  Unfortunately  too, 
Jack's  lessons  were  not  his  strong  point,  and  Mr. 
Sawyer,  for  all  his  nervousness,  was  so  rigorously,  so 
scrupulously  honest  that  he  found  it  impossible  to 
pass  by  without  comment  some  or  much  of  Jack's 
unsatisfactory  work.  And  Jack,  though  so  honest 
himself,  was  human,  and  Soy-human,  and  it  was  not 
in  boy-human  nature  to  remain  perfectly  unaffected 


"THAT   CAD    SAWYER."  141 

by  the  remarks  called  forth  by  the  new  master's 
frequent  fault-finding. 

"  '  It's  just  that  you're  too  civil  to  him  by  half,' 
his  companions  would  say.  4  He's  a  mean  sneak, 
and  thinks  he  can  bully  you  without  your  resenting 
it.  Wyngate  would  never  have  turned  back  those 
verses.' 

"  Or  it  would  be  insinuated  how  partial  Sawyer 
was  to  little  Castlefield,  '  just  because  he's  found  out 
that  Castle's  father's  so  rich '  —  the  truth  being  that 
little  Castlefield,  a  delicate  and  precocious  boy,  was 
the  cleverest  pupil  in  the  school,  his  tasks  always 
faultlessly  prepared,  and  his  power  of  taking  in  what 
he  was  taught  wonderfully  great,  though,  fortunately 
for  himself,  his  extreme  good  humour  and  merry 
nature  made  it  impossible  for  his  companions  to  dis- 
like him  or  set  him  down  as  a  prig. 

"  Jack  laughed  and  pretended  —  believed  indeed 
—  that  he  did  not  care. 

"  '  I  don't  want  him  to  say  my  verses  are  good  if 
they're  not  good,'  he  maintained  stoutly.  But  all  the 
same  he  did  feel,  and  very  acutely  too,  the  mortifica- 
tion to  which  more  than  once  Mr.  Sawyer's  uncom- 
promising censure  exposed  him,  little  imagining  that 
the  fault-finding  was  far  more  painful  to  the  teacher 
than  to  himself,  that  the  short,  unsympathising 
manner  in  which  it  was  done  was  actually  the  result 
of  the  young  man's  tender-hearted  reluctance  to 
cause  pain  to  another,  and  that  other  the  very  boy  to 
whom  of  all  in  the  school  he  felt  himself  most 
attracted. 


142  "  GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

"  And  from  this  want  of  understanding  his  master's 
real  feelings  towards  him  arose  the  first  cloud  of 
prejudice  to  dim  Jack's  reasonable  judgment. 

"  Now  at  Ryeburn,  as  was  in  those  days  the  case 
at  all  schools  of  old  standing,  there  were  legends,  so 
established  and  respected  that  no  one  ever  dreamed 
of  calling  them  into  question ;  there  were  certain 
customs  tolerated,  not  to  say  approved  of,  which  yet, 
regarded  impartially,  from  the  outside  as  it  were, 
were  open  to  objection.  Among  these,  of  which 
there  were  several,  were  one  or  two  specially  con- 
cerning the  younger  boys,  which  came  under  the 
junior  master's  direction,  and  of  them  all,  none  was 
more  universally  practised  than  the  feat  of  what  was 
called  'jumping  the  bar.'  The  'bar'  —  short  in 
reality  for  '  barrier '  —  was  a  railing  of  five  or  six 
feet  high,  placed  so  as  to  prevent  any  of  the  junior 
boys,  who  were  late  in  the  morning,  from  getting 
round  by  a  short  cut  to  the  chapel,  where  prayers 
were  read,  the  proper  entrance  taking  them  round 
the  whole  building,  a  matter  of  at  least  two  minutes' 
quick  walking.  Day  after  day  the  bar  was  '  jumped,' 
day  after  day  the  fact  was  ignored ;  on  no  boy's  con- 
science, however  sensitive,  would  the  knowledge  of 
his  having  made  his  way  into  chapel  by  this  forbidden 
route  have  left  any  mark.  But  alas,  when  Mr. 
Sawyer  came,  things  struck  him  in  a  different  light. 

"  I  cannot  go  into  the  question  of  how  far  he  was 
wrong  and  how  far  right.  He  meant  well,  of  that 
there  is  no  doubt,  but  as  to  his  judiciousness  in  the 
matter,  that   is    another  affair   altogether.     He    had 


"THAT    CAD    SAWYER."  143 

never  been  at  a  great  English  school  before ;  he  was 
conscientious  to  the  last  degree,  but  inexperienced. 
And  I,  being  only  an  old  woman,  and  never  having 
been  at  school  at  all,  do  not  feel  myself  able  to  give 
an  opinion  upon  this  or  many  other  matters  of  which 
I,  like  poor  Mr.  Sawyer,  have  no  experience.  I  can 
only,  children,  '  tell  the  tale  as  'twas  told  to  me,' 
and  not  even  that,  for  the  telling  to  me  was  by  an 
actor  in  the  little  drama,  and  I  cannot  feel,  therefore, 
that  in  this  case  the  ( tale  will  gain  by  the  telling,' 
but  very  decidedly  the  other  way. 

"To  return,  however,  to  the  bar-jumping  —  of  all 
the  boys  who  made  a  practice  of  it,  no  one  did  so 
more  regularly  than  Carlo,  '  Berkeley  minor.'  He 
was  not  a  lazy  boy  in  the  morning  ;  many  and  many 
a  time  he  would  have  been  quite  soon  enough  in  the 
chapel  had  he  gone  round  the  proper  way ;  but  it 
became  almost  a  habit  with  him  to  take  the  nominally 
forbidden  short  cut — so  much  a  habit  that  Mr. 
Wyngate,  who  was  perfectly  aware  of  it,  said  to  him 
jokingly  one  day,  that  he  would  take  it  as  a  personal 
favour,  if,  for  once,  Carlo  would  gratify  him  by  com- 
ing to  chapel  by  the  regular  entrance.  As  for  being 
blamed  for  his  bar-jumping,  such  an  idea  never 
entered  Carlo's  head ;  he  would  almost  as  soon  have 
expected  to  be  blamed  for  eating  his  breakfast,  and, 
naturally  enough,  when  Mr.  Sawyer's  reign  began,  it 
never  occurred  to  him  to  alter  his  conduct.  For 
some  time  things  went  on  as  usual,  Mr.  Sawyer  either 
never  happening  to  see  Carlo's  daily  piece  of  gym- 
nastics, or  not  understanding  that  it  was  prohibited. 


144  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

But  something  occurred  at  last,  some  joke  on  the 
subject,  or  some  little  remark  from  one  of  the  other 
masters,  which  suddenly  drew  the  new  'junior's' 
attention  to  the  fact.  And  two  or  three  mornings 
afterwards,  coming  upon  Carlo  in  the  very  act  of  bar- 
j nmping,  Mr.  Sawyer  ventured  mildly,  but  in  reality 
firmly,  to  remonstrate. 

" '  Berkeley,'  he  said,  in  his  nervous,  jerky  fashion, 
'  that  is  not  the  proper  way  from  your  schoolroom  to 
chapel,  is  it?' 

"  Carlo  took  this  remark  as  a  good  joke,  after  the 
manner  of  Mr.  Wyngate's  on  the  same  subject. 

" '  No,  sir,'  he  replied  mischievously,  '  I  don't  sup- 
pose it  is.' 

" '  Then,'  said  Mr.  Sawyer,  stammering  a  very 
little,  as  he  sometimes  did  when  more  nervous  than 
usual,  '  then  will  you  oblige  me  for  the  future  by 
coming  the  proper  way  ?  ' 

"  He  turned  away  before  Carlo  had  time  to  reply, 
if  indeed  he  had  an  answer  ready,  which  is  doubtful, 
for  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  if  Mr.  Sawyer 
was  in  earnest  or  not.  But  by  the  next  morning  all 
remembrance  of  the  junior  master's  remonstrance 
had  faded  from  Carlo's  thoughtless  brain.  Again  he 
went  bar-jumping  to  chapel,  and  this  time  no  Mr. 
Sawyer  intercepted  him.  But  two  mornings  later, 
just  as  he  had  successfully  accomplished  his  jump, 
he  perceived  in  front  of  him  the  thin,  uncertain-look- 
ing figure  of  the  junior  master. 

"  '  Berkeley,'  he  said  gravely,  '  have  you  forgotten 
what  I  said  to  you  two  or  three  days  ago  ? ' 


"THAT    CAD    SAWYER."  145 

"Carlo  stared.  The  fact  of  the  matter  was  that 
he  had  forgotten,  but  as  his  remembering  would  have 
made  no  difference,  considering  that  he  had  never 
had  the  slightest  intention  of  taking  any  notice  of 
Mr.  Sawyer's  prohibition,  his  instinctive  honesty  for- 
bade his  giving  his  want  of  memory  as  an  excuse. 

" '  No,'  he  replied,  '  at  least  I  don't  know  if  I  did 
or  not.  But  I  have  alwaj^s  come  this  way  —  lots  of 
us  do  —  and  no  one  ever  says  anything.' 

" '  But  i"  say  something  now,'  said  Mr.  Sawyer, 
more  decidedly  than  he  had  ever  been  known  to 
speak,  '  and  that  is  to  forbid  your  coming  this  way. 
And  I  expect  to  be  obeyed.' 

"  Carlo  made  no  reply.  This  time  there  was  no 
mistaking  Mr.  Sawyer's  meaning.  It  was  mortifying 
to  have  to  give  in  to  the  '  mean  little  sneak,'  as  Carlo 
mentally  called  the  new  master ;  still,  as  next  morn- 
ing he  happened  to  be  in  particularly  good  time  he 
went  round  the  proper  way.  The  day  after,  however, 
he  was  late,  decidedly  late  for  once,  and,  throwing  to 
the  winds  all  consideration  for  Mr.  Sawyer  or  his  or- 
ders, Carlo  jumped  the  bar  and  made  his  appearance 
in  time  for  prayers.  He  had  not  known  that  he  was 
observed,  but  coming  out  of  chapel  Mr.  Sawyer  called 
him  aside. 

" '  Berkeley,'  he  said,  '  you  have  disobeyed  me 
again.  'If  this  happens  once  more  I  shall  be  obliged 
to  report  you.' 

"Carlo  stared  at  him  in  blank  amazement. 

"'Report  me?'  lie  said.  Such  a  threat  had  never 
been  held  out  to  either  him  or  Jack  through  all  their 


146  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

Ryeburn  career.  They  looked  upon  it  as  next  worst 
to  being  expelled.  For  reporting  in  Ryeburn  par- 
lance meant  a  formal  complaint  to  the  head-master, 
when  a  boy  had  been  convicted  of  aggravated  dis- 
obedience to  the  juniors.  And  its  results  were  very 
severe ;  it  entirely  prevented  a  boy's  in  any  way  dis- 
tinguishing himself  during  the  half-year:  however 
hard  a  'reported'  boy  might  work,  he  could  gain  no 
prize  that  term.  So  no  wonder  that  poor  Carlo 
repeated  in  amazement, 

"  '  Report  me  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,'  said  Sawyer.  '  I  don't  want  to  do  it,  but 
if  you  continue  to  disobey  me,  I  must,'  and  he  turned 
away. 

"  Off  went  Carlo  to  his  cronies  with  his  tale  of 
wrongs.     The  general  indignation  was  extreme. 

" '  I'd  like  to  see  him  dare  to  do  such  a  thing,' 
said  one. 

" '  I'd  risk  it,  Berkeley,  if  I  were  you,'  said  an- 
other. '  Anything  rather  than  give  in  to  such  a 
cowardly  sneak.' 

"  In  the  midst  of  the  discussion  up  came  Jack,  to 
whom,  with  plenty  of  forcible  language,  his  brother's 
woes  were  related.  Jack's  first  impulse  was  to  dis- 
credit the  sincerity  of  Mr.  Sawyer's  intention. 

" '  He'd  never  dare  do  such  a  thing  as  report  you 
for  nothing  worse  than  bar-jumping,'  he  exclaimed. 

"  But  Carlo  shook  his  head. 

" '  He's  mean  enough  for  anything,'  he  replied. 
'  I  believe  he'll  do  it  fast  enough  if  ever  he  catches 
me  bar-jumping  again.' 


"THAT   CAD    SAWYER."  147 

" '  Well,  you'll  have  to  give  it  up  then,'  said  Jack. 
'  It's  no  use  hurting  yourself  to  spite  him,'  and  as 
Carlo  made  no  reply,  the  elder  brother  went  away, 
satisfied  that  his,  it  must  be  confessed,  not  very  ex- 
alted line  of  argument,  had  had  the  desired  effect. 

"  But  Carlo's  silence  did  not  mean  either  consent 
or  assent.  When  Jack  had  left  them  the  younger 
boys  talked  the  whole  affair  over  again  in  their  own 
fashion  and  according  to  their  own  lights  —  the  result 
being  that  the  following  morning,  with  the  aggrava- 
tion of  a  whoop  and  a  cry,  Carlo  defiantly  jumped  the 
bar  on  his  way  to  chapel  for  prayers. 

"  When  Jack  came  to  hear  of  it,  as  he  speedily 
did,  lie  was  at  first  very  angry,  then  genuinely  dis- 
tressed. 

" '  You  will  only  get  what  you  deserve  .if  he  does 
report  you,'  he  said  to  Carlo  in  his  vexation,  and 
when  Carlo  replied  that  he  didn't  see  that  he  need 
give  up  what  he  had  always  done  'for  a  cad  like 
that,'  Jack  retorted  that  if  he  thought  Sawyer  a  cad 
he  should  have  acted  accordingly,  and  not  trusted  to 
his  good  feeling  or  good  nature.  But  in  his  heart  of 
hearts  Jack  did  not  believe  the  threat  would  be 
carried  out,  and,  unknown  to  Carlo,  he  did  for  his 
brother  what  he  would  never  have  done  for  himself. 
As  soon  as  morning  school  was  over  he  went  to  Mr. 
Sawyer  to  beg  him  to  reconsider  his  intention,  ex- 
plaining to  the  best  of  his  ability  the  extenuating 
circumstances  of  the  case  —  the  tacit  indulgence  so 
long  accorded  to  the  boys,  Carlo's  innocence,  in  the 
first  place,  of  any  intentional  disobedience. 


148  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

"  Mr.  Sawyer  heard  him  patiently ;  whether  his 
arguments  would  have  had  any  effect,  Jack,  at  that 
time  at  least,  had  not  the  satisfaction  of  knowing, 
for  when  he  left  off  speaking  Mr.  Sawyer  replied 
quietly, 

" '  I  am  very  sorry  to  seem  severe  to  your  brother, 
Berkeley,  but  what  I  have  done  I  believed  to  be  my 
duty.     I  have  already  reported  him.' 

"  Jack  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  the  room  with- 
out speaking.  Only  as  he  crossed  the  threshold  one 
word  of  unutterable  contempt  fell  from  between  his 
teeth.  '  6W,'  be  muttered,  careless  whether  Sawyer 
heard  him  or  not. 

"  And  from  that  moment  Jack's  championship  of 
the  obnoxious  master  was  over ;  and  throughout  the 
school  he  was  never  spoken  of  among  the  boys,  big 
and  little,  but  as  '  that  cad  Sawyer.' 

"  Though,  after  all,  the  '  reporting  '  turned  out  less 
terrible  than  was  expected.  How  it  was  managed  I 
cannot  exactly  say,  but  Carlo  was  let  off  with  a 
reprimand,  and  new  and  rigorous  orders  were  issued 
against  '  bar-jumping  '  under  any  excuse  whatever. 

"  I  think  it  probable  that  the  '  authorities  '  privately 
pointed  out  to  Mr.  Sawyer  that  there  might  be  such 
a  thing  as  over-much  zeal  in  the  discharge  of  his 
duties,  and  if  so  I  have  no  doubt  he  took  it  in  good 
part.  For  it  was  not  zeal  which  actuated  him  —  it 
was  simple  conscientiousness,  misdirected  perhaps  by 
his  inexperience.  He  could  not  endure  hurting  any 
one  or  anything,  and  probably  his  very  knowledge  of 
his  weakness  made  him  afraid  of  himself.     Be  that 


"THAT   CAD    SAWYER."  149 

as  it  may,  no  one  concerned  rejoiced  more  heartily 
than  he  at  Carlo's  acquittal. 

"  But  it  was  too  late  —  the  mischief  was  done. 
Day  by  day  the  exaggerated  prejudice  and  suspicion 
with  which  he  was  regarded  became  more  apparent. 
Yet  he  did  not  resent  it  —  he  worked  on,  hoping  that 
in  time  it  might  be  overcome,  for  he  yearned  to  be 
liked  and  trusted,  and  his  motives  for  wishing  to  do 
well  at  Ryeburn  were  very  strong  ones. 

"  And  gradually,  as  time  went  on,  things  improved 
a  little.  Now  and  then  the  better-disposed  of  the  boys 
felt  ashamed  of  the  tacit  disrespect  with  which  one  so 
enduring  and  inoffensive  was  treated ;  and  among 
these  better-disposed  I  need  hardly  say  was  our  Jack. 

"  It  was  the  end  of  October.  But  a  few  days  were 
wanting  to  the  anniversary  so  dear  to  schoolboy 
hearts  —  that  of  Gunpowder  Plot.  This  year  the 
fifth  of  November  celebration  was  to  be  of  more  than 
ordinary  magnificence,  for  it  was  the  last  at  which 
several  of  the  elder  boys,  among  them  Jack,  could 
hope  to  be  present.  Fireworks  committees  were 
formed  and  treasurers  appointed,  and  nothing  else 
was  spoken  of  but  the  sums  collected  and  promised, 
and  the  apportionment  thereof  in  Catherine  wheels, 
Chinese  dragons,  and  so  on.  Jack  was  one  of  the 
treasurers.  He  had  been  very  successful  so  far,  but 
the  sum  total  on  which  he  and  his  companions  had 
set  their  hearts  was  still  unattained.  The  elder  boys 
held  a  committee  meeting  one  day  to  consider  ways 
and  means,  and  the  names  of  all  the  subscribers  were 
read  out. 


150  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

" '  We  should  manage  two  pounds  more ;  we'd  do 
then,'  said  one  boy. 

"  '  Are  you  sure  everybody's  been  asked  ? '  said 
another,  running  his  eye  down  the  lists.  '  Bless  me, 
Sawyer's  not  in,'  he  added,  looking  up  inquiringly. 

" '  No  one  would  ask  him,'  said  the  first  boy,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders. 

"  A  sudden  thought  struck  Jack. 

" '  I'll  tell  you  what,  Til  do  it,'  he  said,  '  and, 
between  ourselves,  I  shouldn't  much  wonder  if  he 
comes  down  handsomely.  He's  been  very  civil  of 
late  —  I  rather  think  he'd  be  glad  of  an  opportunity 
to  do  something  obliging  to  make  up  for  that  mean 
trick  of  his  about  Carlo,  and  what's  more,'  he  added 
mysteriously,  '  I  happen  to  know  he's  by  no  means 
short  of  funds  just  now.' 

"  They  teased  him  to  say  more,  but  not  another 
word  on  the  subject  could  be  got  out  of  Jack.  What 
he  knew  was  this  —  that  very  morning  when  the  let- 
ters came,  he  had  happened  to  be  standing  beside 
Mr.  Sawyer,  who,  with  an  eager  face,  opened  one  that 
was  handed  to  him.  He  was  nervous  as  usual,  more 
nervous  than  usual  probably,  and  perhaps  his  hands 
were  shaking,  for  as  he  drew  his  letter  hastily  out  of 
the  envelope,  something  fluttered  to  the  ground  at 
Jack's  feet. 

"  It  was  a  cheque  for  twenty  pounds,  and  conspic- 
uous on  the  lowest  line  was  the  signature  of  a  well- 
known  publishing  firm.  Instinctively  Jack  stooped 
to  pick  it  up  and  handed  it  to  its  owner  —  it  had 
been  impossible  for  him  not  to  see  what  he  did,  but 


"THAT    CAD    SAWYER."  151 

he  had  thought  no  more  about  it,  beyond  a  passing 
wonder  in  his  own  mind,  as  to  '  what  on  earth  Sawyer 
got  to  write  about,'  and  had  forgotten  all  about  it  till 
the  meeting  of  the  fireworks  committee  recalled  it  to 
his  memory. 

"  But  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  pleasant  expectancy, 
not  unmixed  with  some  consciousness  of  his  own 
magnanimity  in  'giving  old  Sawyer  a  chance  again,' 
that  Jack  made  his  way  to  the  junior  master's  quar- 
ters, the  list  of  subscribers  in  his  hand. 

"  He  made  a  pleasant  picture,  as,  in  answer  to  the 
'  come  in '  which  followed  the  knock  at  the  door,  he 
opened  it  and  stood  on  the  threshold  of  Mr.  Saw- 
yer's room — his  bright,  honest,  blue-eyed,  fair-haired 
'English  boy'  face  smiling  in  through  the  doorway. 
With  almost  painful  eagerness  the  junior  master 
bade  him  welcome ;  lie  liked  Jack  so  much,  and 
would  so  have  rejoiced  could  the  attraction  have 
been  mutual.  And  this  was  the  first  time  that  Jack 
had  voluntarily  sought  Mr.  Sawyer  in  his  own  quar- 
ters since  the  bar-jumping  affair.  Mr.  Sawyer's  spirits 
rose  at  the  sight  of  him,  and  hope  again  entered  his 
heart  —  hope  that  after  all,  his  position  at  Ryeburn, 
which  he  was  beginning  to  fear  it  was  nonsense  to 
attempt  to  retain,  in  face  of  the  evident  dislike  to 
him,  might  yet  alter  for  the  better. 

'"I  have  not  a  good  way  with  them  —  that  must 
be  it,'  he  had  said  to  himself  sadly  that  very  morn- 
ing. '  I  never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  a  boy  myself, 
and  therefore  I  suppose  I  don't  understand  bo}^. 
But   if  they  could  but  see  into  my  heart  and  read 


152  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

there  how  earnestly  I  wish  to  do  my  best  by  them, 
surely  we  could  get  on  better  together.' 

"  '  Well,  Berkeley  —  glad  to  see  you  —  what  can  I 
do  for  jon  ? '  said  Sawyer,  with  a  little  nervous 
attempt  at  off-hand  friendliness  of  manner,  in  itself 
infinitely  touching  to  any  one  with  eyes  to  take  in 
the  whole  situation  and  judge  it  and  him  accord- 
ingly. But  those  eyes  are  not  ours  in  early  life, 
more  especially  in  boy-life.  We  must  have  our  pow- 
ers of  mental  vision  quickened  and  cleared  by  the 
magic  dew  of  sad  experience  —  experience  which 
alone  can  give  sympathy  worth  having,  ere  we  can 
understand  the  queer  bits  of  pathos  we  constantly 
stumble  upon  in  life,  ere  we  can  begin  to  judge  our 
fellows  with  the  large-hearted  charity  that  alone  can 
illumine  the  glass  through  which  for  so  lono-  we  see 
so  very  '  darkly." 

" '  I  have  come  to  ask  you  for  a  subscription  for 
the  fifth  of  November  fireworks,  Mr.  Sawyer,'  said 
Jack,  plunging,  as  was  his  habit,  right  into  the  middle 
of  things,  with  no  beating  about  the  bush.  '  We've 
asked  all  the  other  masters,  and  every  one  in  the 
school  has  subscribed,  and  I  was  to  tell  you,  sir,  from 
the  committee  that  they'll  be  very  much  obliged  by 
a  subscription  —  and  —  and  I  really  think  they'll  all 
be  particularly  pleased  if  you  can  give  us  something 
handsome.' 

"  The  message  was  civil,  but  hardly  perhaps, 
coming  from  pupils  to  a  master,  '  of  the  most  re- 
spectful,' as  French  people  say.  But  poor  Sawyer 
understood  it  —  in  some  respects  his  perceptions  were 


"THAT    CAD    SAWYER."  153 

almost  abnormally  sharp :  he  read  between  the  lines 
of  Jack's  rough-and-ready,  boy-like  manner,  and 
understood  perfectly  that  here  was  a  chance  for  him 
—  a  chance  in  a  thousand,  of  gaining  some  degree  of 
the  popularity  he  had  hitherto  so  unfortunately  failed 
to  obtain.  And  to  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  felt 
grateful  to  Berkeley  —  but  alas! 

"  He  grew  crimson  with  vexation. 

"'I  am  dreadfully  sorry,  Berkeley,'  he  said,  'dread- 
fully sorry  that  I  cannot  respond  as  I  would  like  to 
your  request.  At  this  moment  unfortunately,  I  am 
very  peculiarly  out  of  pocket.  Stay,'  —  with  a 
momentary  gleam  of  hope,  'will  you  let  me  see  the 
subscription  list.  How  —  how  much  do  you  think 
would  please  the  boys  ?  ' 

"  '  A  guinea  wouldn't  be  —  would  please  them  very 
much,  and  of  course  two  would  be  still  better,'  said 
Jack  drily.  Already  he  had  in  his  own  mind  pro- 
nounced a  final  verdict  upon  Mr.  Sawyer,  already  he 
had  begun  to  tell  himself  what  a  fool  he  had  been 
for  having  anything  more  to  do  with  him,  but  yet, 
with  the  British  instinct  of  giving  an  accused  man  a 
fair  chance,  he  waited  till  all  hope  was  over. 

" '  A  guinea,  two  guineas  ! '  repeated  Mr.  Sawyer 
sadly.  '  It  is  perfectly  impossible ; '  and  he  shook 
his  head  regretfully  but  decidedly.  '  Half-a-crown, 
or  five  shillings  perhaps,  if  you  would  take  it,'  he 
added  hesitatingly,  but  stopped  short  on  catching 
sight  of  the  hard,  contemptuous  expression  that  over- 
spread .lack's  face,  but  a  moment  ago  so  sunny. 

'"No    thank  you,  sir,'   he  replied.     WI   should   be 


154  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

very  sorry  to  take  any  subscription  from  you,  know- 
ing what  I  do,  and  so  would  all  my  companions. 
You're  a  master,  sir,  and  I'm  a  boy,  but  I  can  tell 
you  I  wish  you  ivere  a  boy  that  I  might  speak  out. 
I  couldn't  help  seeing  what  came  to  you  by  post  this 
morning  —  you  know  I  couldn't  —  and  yet  on  the 
face  of  that  you  tell  me  you're  too  hard-up  to  do 
what  I  came  to  ask  like  a  gentleman  —  and  what 
would  have  been  for  your  good  in  the  end  too.  I'm 
not  going  to  tell  what  came  to  my  knowledge  by 
accident;  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  that,  but  I'd  be 
uncommonly  sorry  to  take  anything  from  you  for  our 
fireworks.' 

"  And  again  Jack  turned  on  his  heel,  and  in  hot 
wrath  left  the  under-master,  muttering  again  between 
his  set  teeth  as  he  did  so  the  one  word  '  cad.' 

" '  Jack,'  Mr.  Sawyer  called  after  him,  but  either 
he  did  not  call  loud  enough  or  Jack  would  not  take 
any  notice  of  his  summons,  for  he  did  not  return. 
What  a  pity !  Had  he  done  so,  Mr.  Sawyer,  who 
understood  him  too  well  to  feel  the  indignation  a 
more  superficial  person  would  have  done  at  his 
passionate  outburst,  had  it  in  his  heart  to  take  the 
hasty,  impulsive,  generous-spirited  lad  into  his  con- 
fidence and  what  might  not  have  been  the  result  ? 
What  a  different  future  for  the  poor  under-master, 
had  he  then  and  there  and  for  ever  won  from  the 
boy  the  respect  and  sympathy  he  so  "well  deserved ! 

"  Jack  returned  to  his  companions  gloomy  but 
taciturn.  He  gave  them  to  understand  that  his 
mission    had   failed,   and    that  henceforth   he   would 


"THAT    CAD    SAWYER."  155 

have  nothing  to  say  to  Sawyer  that  he  could  help, 
and  that  was  all.  He  entered  into  no  particulars, 
but  there  are  occasions  on  which  silence  says  more 
than  words,  and  from  this  time  no  voice  was  ever 
raised  in  the  junior  master's  defence  —  throughout 
the  school  he  was  never  referred  to  except  as  '  the 
cad,'  or  '  that  cad  Sawyer.' 

"  And  alone  in  his  own  room,  Mr.  Sawyer,  sorrow- 
ful but  unresentful  still,  was  making  up  his  mind 
that  his  efforts  had  been  all  in  vain.  '  I  must  give 
it  up,'  he  said.  'And  both  for  myself  and  the  boys 
the  sooner  the  better,  before  there  is  any  overt  dis- 
respect which  would  have  to  be  noticed.  It  is  no  use 
lighting  on.  I  have  not  the  knack  of  it.  The  boys 
will  never  like  me,  and  I  may  do  harm  where  I  would 
wish  to  do  good.     I  must  try  something  else.' 

"  Two  or  three  weeks  later  —  a  month  perhaps  — 
the  boys  were  one  day  surprised  by  the  appearance 
of  a  strange  face  at  what  had  been  Mr.  Sawyer's  desk. 
And  on  inquiry  the  new  comer  proved  to  be  a  young 
curate  accidentally  in  the  neighbourhood,  who  had 
undertaken  to  fill  for  a  few  weeks  the  under-master's 
vacant  place.  The  occurrence  made  some  sensation 
—  it  was  unusual  for  any  change  of  the  kind  to 
take  place  during  a  term.  'Was  Sawyer  ill?'  one 
or  two  of  the  boys  asked,  as  there  came  before  them 
the  recollection  of  the  young  man's  pale  and  care- 
worn face,  and  they  recalled  witli  some  compunction 
the  I'ariah-like  life  that  for  some  time  past  had  been  his. 

"  No,  he  was  not  ill,  they  were  informed,  but  he 
had  requested  the  head-master  to  supply  his  place 


156  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

and  let  him  leave,  for  private  reasons,  as  soon  as 
possible. 

"  What  were  the  private  reasons.  ?  The  head- 
master and  his  colleagues  had  tried  in  vain  to  arrive 
at  them.  Not  one  syllable  of  complaint  had  fallen 
from  the  junior  master's  lips.  He  had  simply  re- 
peated that,  though  sorry  to  cause  any  inconvenience, 
it  was  of  importance  to  him  to  leave  at  once. 

"  '  At  least,'  he  said  to  himself,  '  I  shall  say  nothing 
to  get  any  of  them  into  trouble  after  I  am  gone.' 

"  And  he  had  begged,  too,  that  no  public  intimation 
of  his  resignation  should  be  given. 

"  But  one  or  two  of  the  boys  had  known  it  before 
it  actually  occurred  —  and  among  them  the  Berkeley 
brothers.  Late  one  cold  evening,  for  winter  had  set 
in  very  early  that  year,  Mr.  Sawyer  had  stopped 
them  on  their  way  across  the  courtyard  to  their  own 
rooms. 

"  '  Berkeley,'  he  had  said,  '  I  am  leaving  early  to- 
morrow morning.  I  should  like  to  say  good-bye  and 
shake  hands  with  you  before  I  go.  I  have  not  taken 
a  good  way  with  you  boys,  somehow,  and — and  the 
prejudice  against  me  has  been  very  strong.  But 
some  day  —  when  you  are  older  perhaps,  you  may 
come  to  think  it  possible  you  have  misunderstood 
me.  Be  that  as  it  may,  there  is  not  and  never  has 
been  any  but  good  feeling  towards  you  on  my  part.' 

"  He  held  out  his  hand,  but  a  spirit  of  evil  had 
taken  possession  of  Jack  —  a  spirit  of  hard,  unforgiv- 
ing prejudice. 

"'  Good-bye,  Mr.  Sawj^er,'  he  said,  but  he  stalked  on 


"THAT   CAD    SAWYER."  157 

without  taking  any  notice  of  the  out-stretched  hand, 
and  Carlo,  echoing  the  cold  '  Good-bye,  Mr.  Sawyer,' 
followed  his  example. 

"But  little  Carlo's  heart  was  very  tender.  He 
slept  ill  that  night,  and  early,  very  early  the  next 
morning  he  was  up  and  on  the  watch.  There  was 
snow  on  the  ground,  snow,  though  December  had 
scarcely  set  in,  and  it  was  very  cold. 

"  Carlo  shivered  as  he  hung  about  the  door  leading 
to  Mr.  Sawyer's  room,  and  he  wondered  why  the  fly 
which  always  came  for  passengers  by  the  early  Lon- 
don train  had  not  yet  made  its  appearance,  little 
imagining  that  not  by  the  comfortable  express,  but 
third  class  in  a  slow  '  parliamentary  '  Mr.  Sawyer's 
journey  was  to  be  accomplished.  And,  when  at  last 
the  thin  figure  of  the  under-master  emerged  from  the 
doorway,  it  went  to  the  boy's  heart  to  see  that  he 
himself  was  carrying  the  small  black  bag  which  held 
his  possessions. 

"  '  I  have  come  to  wish  you  good-bye  again,  sir,'  said 
Carlo,  '  and  I  am  sorry  I  didn't  shake  hands  last 
night.  And  —  and  —  I  believe  Jack  would  have 
come  too,  if  he'd  thought  of  it.' 

"  Mr.  Sawyer's  eyes  glistened  as  he  shook  the  small 
hand  held  out  to  him. 

"'Thank  you,  my  boy,'  he  said  earnestly,  'how 
much  I  thank  you  you  will  never  know.' 

" '  And  is  that  all  your  luggage  ? '  asked  Carlo, 
half  out  of  curiosity,  half  by  way  of  breaking  the 
melancholy  of  the  parting,  which  somehow  gave  him 
a  choky  fueling  about  the  throat. 


158  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

" '  Oh  no,'  said  Mr.  Sawyer,  entering  into  the  boy's 
shrinking  from  anything  like  a  scene,  '  oh  no,  I  sent 
on  my  box  by  the  carrier  last  Saturday.  It  would 
have  been  rather  too  big  to  carry.'  He  spoke  in  his 
usual  commonplace  tone,  more  cheerful,  less  nervous 
perhaps  than  its  wont.  Then  once  more,  with  a 
second  hearty  shake  of  the  hand, 

" '  Good-bye  again,  my  boy,  and  God  bless  you.' 
And  Carlo,  his  eyes  dim  in  spite  of  his  intense 
determination  to  be  above  such  weakness,  stood 
watching  the  dark  figure,  conspicuous  against  the 
white-sheeted  ground  and  steel-blue  early  morning 
winter  sky. 

"'I  wonder  if  we've  been  right  about  him,'  he 
said  to  himself.     '  I'm  glad  I  came,  any  way.' 

"And  there  came  a  day  when  others  beside  little 
Carlo  himself  were  glad,  oh  so  glad,  that  he  had 
'  come  '  that  snowy  morning  to  bid  the  solitary  travel- 
ler God-speed." 


WlOOD-BTS   AGAIN,   MY  BoY,  AND   GOD   BLESS   YOU  !  "  —  p.  158 


CHAPTER   XI. 

"  THAT   CAD   SAWYER."  —  PART   II. 

"  Did  the  road  wind  uphill  all  the  way  ? 
Yes  to  the  very  end. ' ' 

Christina  Rossetti. 

Grandmother's  voice  had  faltered  a  little  now 
and  then  during  the  latter  part  of  her  reading.  The 
children  looked  at  each  other  significantly. 

"  Uncle  Carlo  died  you  know,"  whispered  Sylvia 
again  to  Ralph  and  Molly. 

"  And  uncle  Jack  too,"  said  Ralph. 

"  Yes,  but  much  longer  after.  Uncle  Carlo  was 
only  a  boy  when  he  died,"  said  Molly,  as  if  the  fact 
infinitely  aggravated  the  sorrow  in  his  case. 

Their  whispering  did  not  interrupt  their  grand- 
mother this  time.     She  had  already  paused. 

"  1  think,  dears,"  she  said,  "  I  had  better  read  the 
rest  to-morrow  evening.  There  is  a  good  deal  more 
of  it,  and  my  voice  gets  tired  after  a  while." 

"  Couldn't  I  read  it  for  you,  mother  dear  ?  "  said 
aunty. 

Grandmother  smiled  a  little  rougishly.  "  No,  my 
dear,  thank  you,"  she  said.  "  I  think  I  like  best  to 
read  myself  what  1  have  written  myself.  And  you, 
according  to  that,  will  have  your  turn  soon,  Laura." 

159 


160  "  GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

"Mother!  how  did  you  find  out  what  I  was 
doing?"  exclaimed  aunty. 

"  A  little  bird  told  me,  of  course,"  said  grand- 
mother, smiling.  "  You  know  how  clever  my  little 
birds  are." 

During  this  mysterious  conversation  the  children 
had  sat  with  wide  open  eyes  and  puzzled  faces. 
Suddenly  a  light  broke  upon  Sylvia. 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  she  cried.  "  Aunty's  writing 
a  story  for  us  too.     Oh,  you  delightful  aunty !  " 

"  Oh  you  beautiful  aunty !  oh  you  delicious  aunty ! " 
echoed  Molly.  "  Why  don't  you  say  something  too, 
Ralph?"  she  exclaimed,  turning  reproachfully  to  her 
brother.  "  You  like  stories  just  as  much  as  we  do 
— -you  know  you  do." 

"  But  you  and  Sylvia  have  used  up  all  the  adjec- 
tives," said  Ralph.  "  What  can  I  call  aunty,  unless 
I  say  she's  a  very  jolly  fellow  ?  " 

"  Reserve  your  raptures,  my  dears,"  said  aunty, 
"  '  The  proof  of  the  pudding's  in  the  eating,'  remem- 
ber. Perhaps  you  may  not  care  for  my  story  when 
you  hear  it.  I  am  quite  willing  to  wait  for  your 
thanks  till  you  have  heard  it." 

"But  any  way,  aunty  dear,  we'll  thank  you  for 
having  tried"  said  Molly  encouragingly.  "  I  dare- 
say it  won't  be  quite  as  nice  as  grandmother's.  You 
see  you're  so  much  younger,  and  then  I  don't  think 
anybody  could  tell  stories  like  her,  could  they  ?  But, 
grandmother  dear,"  she  went  on,  "  would  you  mind 
telling  me  one  thing?  When  people  write  stories 
how  do  they  know  all  the  things  they  tell?     How  do 


"THAT   CAD    SAWYER."  1G1 

3'ou  know  what  poor  Mr.  Sawyer  said  to  himself 
when  he  was  alone  in  his  room  that  day?  Did  he 
ever  tell  anybody  ?  I  know  the  story's  true,  because 
uncle  Jack  told  it  you  himself,  only  I  can't  make 
out  how  you  got  to  know  all  those  bits  of  it,  like." 

"  What  a  goose  you  are,  Molly  ! "  exclaimed  both 
Ralph  and  Sylvia.  "  How  could  any  stories  ever  be 
written  if  people  went  on  about  them  like  that?" 

But  Molly's  honest  puzzled  face  made  grandmother 
smile. 

"  I  know  how  you  mean,  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  used 
to  think  like  that  myself.  No,  I  don't  know  exactly 
the  very  words  Mr.  Sawyer  said  to  himself,  but, 
judging  from  my  knowledge  of  the  whole  story,  I  put 
myself,  as  it  were,  in  his  place,  and  picture  to  myself 
what  I  would  have  said.  I  told  you  I  had  altered  it 
a  little.  When  your  uncle  wrote  it  out  it  was  all 
in  the  first  person,  but  not  having  been  an  eye-witness, 
as  he  was,  it  seemed  to  me  I  could  better  give  the 
spirit  of  the  story  by  putting  it  into  this  form.  Do 
you  understand  at  all  better,  dear?  When  you  have 
heard  the  whole  to  the  end  you  will  do  so,  I  think. 
All  the  part  about  Carlo  I  had  from  his  own  lips." 

"  Thank  }-ou,  grandmother  dear.  I  think  I  under- 
stand," said  Molly,  and  she  was  philosophical  enough 
to  take  no  notice  of  the  repeated  whisper  which 
reached  her  ears  alone,  "  Oh,  you  are  a  goose  !  " 

It  was  not  till  the  next  evening  that  grandmother 
went  on  with  the  second  part  of  her  story. 

"What  do  all  those  stars  mean?"  asked  Molly, 
peeping  over  her  grandmother's  shoulder  before  she 


1G2  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

began  to  read.  "  Look  Sylvia,  how  funny  ! "  and 
she  pointed  to  a  long  row  of  *  *  *  * 
at  the  end  of  the  first  part  of  the  manuscript. 

"  They  mean  that  some  length  of  time  has  elapsed 
between  the  two  parts  of  the  story,"  said  grand- 
mother. 

"  Oh,  I  see.  And  each  star  counts  for  a  year,  I 
suppose.     Let  me  see;  one,  two,  three  —  " 

"  Molly,  do  be  quiet,  and  let  grandmother  go  on," 
said  Ralph  and  Sylvia,  their  patience  exhausted. 

"  No,  they  are  not  counted  like  that,"  said  grand- 
mother. "  Listen,  Molly,  and  you  will  hear  for  your- 
self." 

"  The  first  part  of  my  little  story  finished  in  the 
snow  —  on  a  cold  December  morning  in  England. 
The  second  part  begins  in  a  very  different  scene  and 
many,  many  miles  away  from  Ryeburn.  Three  or 
four  years  have  passed.  Some  of  those  we  left  boys 
are  now  men  —  many  changes  have  taken  place.  In- 
stead of  December,  it  is  August.  Instead  of  England 
we  have  a  far-away  country,  which  till  that  time, 
when  the  interest  of  the  whole  world  was  suddenly 
concentrated  on  it,  had  been  but  little  known  and 
still  less  thought  of  by  the  dwellers  in  more  civilised 
lands.  It  is  the  Crimea,  children,  and  the  Crimea 
on  a  broiling,  stifling  August  day.  At  the  present 
time  when  we  speak  and  think  of  that  dreadful  war 
and  the  sufferings  it  entailed,  it  is  above  all  the 
winters  there  that  we  recall  with  the  greatest  horror 
—  those  terrible  '  Crimean  winters.'  But  those  who 
went  through  it  all  have  often  assured  me  that  the 


aTHAT    CAD    SAWYER."  163 

miseries  of  the  summers  —  of  some  part  of  them  at 
least  —  were  in  their  way  quite  as  great,  or  worse. 
What  could  be  much  worse  ?  The  suffocating  heat ; 
the  absence,  or  almost  total  absence,  of  shade  ;  the 
dust  and  the  dirt,  and  the  poisonous  flies ;  the  foul 
water  and  half-putrid  food?  Bad  for  the  sound  ones, 
or  those  as  jet  so  —  and  oh,  how  intolerably  dreadful 
for  the  sick ! 

"  '  What  could  be  much  worse  ? '  thought  Jack 
Berkeley  to  himself,  as  after  a  long  killing  spell  in 
the  trenches  he  at  last  got  back  to  his  tent  for  a  few 
hours'  rest. 

" '  My  own  mother  wouldn't  know  me,'  he  said  to 
himself,  as  out  of  a  sort  of  half  melancholy  mischief 
he  glanced  at  his  face  in  the  little  bit  of  cracked 
looking-glass  which  was  all  he  had  to  adorn  himself 
by.  He  was  feeling  utterly  worn  out  and  depressed 
—  so  many  of  his  friends  and  companions  were  dead 
or  dying  —  knocked  down  at  that  time  quite  as  much 
by  disease  as  by  Russian  bullets  —  in  many  cases  the 
more  terrible  death  of  the  two.  And  things  in  general 
were  looking  black.  It  was  an  anxious  and  weariful 
time. 

"  Jack  threw  himself  on  the  bed.  He  was  too 
tired  to  undress.  All  he  longed  for  was  coolness  and 
sleep  —  the  first  the  less  attainable  of  the  two,  for  the 
thin  sides  of  his  tent  were  as  powerless  to  keep  out 
the  scorching  heat  as  the  biting  cold,  and  it  was  not 
till  many  more  months  of  both  heat  and  cold  had 
passed  that  any  better  shelter  was  provided  for  him 
or  his  fellows. 


164  "GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

"  But  heat  and  flies  notwithstanding  Jack  fell 
asleep,  and  had  slept  soundly  for  an  hour  or  two 
when  he  was  suddenly  awakened  by  a  voice  calling 
him  by  name. 

"'Berkeley,'  it  said,  'you  are  Berkeley  of  the 
300th,  aren't  you  ?  I  am  sorry  to  awaken  you  if 
you're  not,  but  I  couldn't  see  your  servant  about 
anywhere  to  ask.  There's  a  poor  fellow  dying,  down 
at  Kadikoi,  asking  for  Berkeley  —  Jack  Berkeley  of 
the  300th.' 

" '  Yes,  that's  me,'  said  Jack,  rubbing  his  eyes  with 
his  smoke-begrimed  hands,  which  he  had  neither 
had  energy  nor  water  to  wash  before  he  fell  asleep. 
'  That's  me,  sure  enough.  Who  is  it  ?  What  does 
he  want?' 

"  '  I  don't  know  who  he  is,'  replied  the  other.  '  I 
didn't  hear  his  name.  He's  not  one  of  us.  He's  a 
poor  devil  who's  out  here  as  a  correspondent  to  some 
paper  —  I  forget  which  —  he's  only  been  out  a  short 
time.  He's  dying  of  dysentery  —  quite  alone,  near 
our  quarters.  I'm  Montagu  of  the  25th  Hussars  — 
Captain  Montagu,  and  our  doctor,  who's  looking 
after  him,  sent  in  for  me,  knowing  I'd  been  at  Rye- 
burn,  as  the  poor  fellow  said  something  about  it.  But 
it  must  have  been  after  my  time.     I  left  in  '48.' 

"  '  I  don't  think  I  remember  you,'  said  Jack  medi- 
tatively. '  But  you  may  have  been  among  the  upper 
boys  when  I  was  one  of  the  small  ones.' 

" '  Sure  to  have  been,'  said  Captain  Montagu. 
'  But  about  this  poor  fellow.  He  was  so  disappointed 
when  he  found  I  was  a  stranger  to  him  that  I  said 


"THAT   CAD   SAWYER."  165 

I'd  try  to  find  some  other  Ryeburn  boy  who  might 
remember  him.  And  some  one  or  other  mentioned 
you,  so  I  came  over  to  look  you  up.' 

" '  Very  good  of  you,'  said  Jack,  who  was  still, 
however,  feeling  so  sleepy  that  he  could  almost  have 
wished  Captain  Montagu  had  not  been  so  good. 
'  Shall  I  go  back  with  you  to  Kadikoi  ?  Very  likely 
it's  some  one  I  did  not  know  either,  still  one  can  but 
try.' 

"'You're  very  tired,'  said  Montagu,  sympathisingly. 
'  I  am  sorry  to  give  you  such  a  long  walk.  But  the 
doctor  said  he  couldn't  last  long,  and  the  poor  fellow 
seemed  so  eager  when  he  heard  your  name.' 

"'Oh,  he  does  know  me  then?'  said  Jack,  his 
interest  reviving.     '  I  didn't  understand.' 

"  '  Oh  yes.  I  mentioned  your  name  when  I  heard 
it,  and  he  said  at  once  if  it  was  Jack  Berkeley  he 
would  extremely  like  to  see  him.  It  was  stupid  of 
me  not  to  ask  his  name.' 

"  '  I'll  be  ready  to  go  with  you  in  a  moment,'  said 
Jack,  after  frantic  efforts  discovering  in  a  bucket  a 
very  small  reserve  of  water  with  which  he  managed 
to  wash  his  face  clear  of  some  part  of  its  grimy  cover- 
ing. '  My  servant's  gone  to  Balaclava  to  see  what  he 
could  get  in  the  way  of  food  for  a  change  from  these 
dreadful  salt  rations.  He  brought  me  a  bottle  of 
porter  the  other  day ;  it  cost  three  shillings,  but  I 
never  enjoyed  anything  so  much  in  my  life.' 

'"I  can  quite  believe  it,'  said  Captain  Montagu 
feelingly.  '  Your  servant  must  be  worth  his  weight 
in  gold.' 


166  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

"In  another  minute  they  were  on  their  way.  The 
sun  was  beginning  to  sink,  fortunately ;  it  was  not 
quite  so  hot  as  a  few  hours  previously.  But  it  was 
quite  as  dusty,  and  the  walking  along  a  recently  and 
roughly  made  track,  not  worthy  the  name  of  road, 
was  very  tiring.  It  was  fully  five  miles  to  Kadikoi  — 
five  miles  across  a  bare,  dried-up  country,  from  which 
all  traces  of  the  scanty  cultivation  it  had  ever  received 
were  fast  disappearing  under  the  present  state  of 
things.  There  was  not  a  tree,  hardly  a  stunted  shrub, 
to  be  seen,  and  the  ground  —  at  best  but  a  few  inches 
of  poor  soil  above  the  sterile  rock,  felt  hard  and  un- 
yielding as  well  as  rough.  It  was  a  relief  of  its  kind 
at  last  to  quit  the  level  ground  for  the  slope  leading 
down  to  Balaclava,  where,  though  they  were  too  small 
to  afford  anything  in  the  shape  of  shade,  the  sight  of 
some  few,  starved-looking  bushes  and  some  remains 
of  what  might  once  have  been  grass,  refreshed  the  eye, 
at  once  wearied  and  dazzled  by  the  glare  and  mono- 
tony of  the  sun-dried  plain. 

"The  tent  to  which  Captain  Montagu  led  the 
way  stood  by  itself  on  some  rising  ground,  a  little 
behind  the  row  of  nondescript  hovels  or  mud  huts 
representing  what  had  been  the  little  hamlet  of 
Kadikoi.  It  looked  wretched  enough  as  the  two 
young  men  made  their  way  in,  but  everywhere  looked 
wretched,  only  the  bareness  and  comfortlessness  im- 
pressed one  doubly  when  viewed  in  connection  with 
physical  suffering  that  would  have  been  hard  to 
endure  even  with  all  the  alleviations  and  tenderness 
of  friends  and  home  about  one. 


"THAT   CAD   SAWYER."  1Q1 

"  The  doctor  was  just  leaving  the  tent  —  his  time 
was  all  too  precions  to  give  much  of  it  where  it  was 
evident  that  his  skill  could  be  of  no  avail  —  but  before 
going  he  had  done  what  he  could  for  the  sick  man's 
comfort,  and  he  lay  now,  pale,  worn,  and  wan,  but  no 
longer  in  pain,  and  by  the  bedside  —  a  low  narrow 
camp  stretcher  —  sat  a  young  soldier,  holding  from 
time  to  time  a  cup  of  water  to  the  dry  lips  of  the 
dying  man.  Clumsy  he  might  be,  but  there  was  no 
lack  of  tenderness  in  his  manner  or  expression. 

" '  That's  one  of  our  men  that  the  doctor  sent  in,' 
whispered  Montagu  ;  '  the  poor  fellow  there  had  been 
lying  alone  for  two  or  three  days,  and  no  one  knew. 
His  Greek  servant  —  scoundrels  those  fellows  are  — 
had  deserted  him.' 

"  Jack  cautiously  approached  the  bed. 

'"This  is  Mr.  Berkeley— Jack  Berkeley  of  the 
300th,  whom  you  said  you  would  like  to  see,'  said 
Captain  Montagu  gently,  stepping  in  front  of  Jack. 

"  The  sick  man's  eyes  lightened  up,  and  a  faint 
flush  rose  in  his  cheeks.  He  was  very  fair,  and  lying 
there  looked  very  young,  younger  somehow  than  Jack 
had  expected.  Had  he  ever  seen  him  before  ?  There 
was  nothing  remarkable  about  the  face  except  its 
peculiarly  gentle  and  placid  expression  —  yet  it  was 
a  face  of  considerable  resolution  as  well,  and  there 
were  lines  about  the  mouth  which  told  of  endurance 
and  fortitude,  almost  contradicting  the  wistfulness 
of  the  boyish-looking  blue  eyes.  Jack  grew  more 
and  more  puzzled.  Something  seemed  familiar  to 
him,  yet  — 


168  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

"  'How  good,  how  very  good  of  you  to  come.  Do 
you  remember  me,  Berkeley?  '  said  the  invalid,  feebly 
stretching  out  a  thin  hand,  which  Jack  instinctively 
took  and  held  gently  in  his  own  strong  grasp. 

"  Jack  hesitated.  A  look  of  disappointment  over- 
spread the  pale  face. 

"'I  am  afraid  you  don't  know  me.  Perhaps  you 
would  not  have  come  if  you  had  understood  who  it  was.' 

"  '  I  did  not  hear  your  name,'  said  Jack,  very  gently, 
'  but,  of  course,  hearing  you  wished  to  see  me  — '  he 
hesitated.     '  Were  we  at  Ryeburn  together  ?  ' 

"  '  Yes,'  said  the  dying  man.  '  My  —  my  name  is 
Sawyer  —  Philip  Sawyer  —  but  you  only  knew  my 
surname,  of  course.' 

"  Jack  understood  it  all.  Even  before  the  name 
was  mentioned,  the  slight  nervous  stammer,  the  faint 
peculiarity  of  accent,  had  recalled  to  his  memory  the 
poor  young  junior  master,  whose  short,  apparently 
unsuccessful,  Ryeburn  career  had  left  its  mark  on  the 
lives  of  others  besides  his  own. 

"  Jack  understood  —  not  so  the  sick  man.  He  was 
surprised  and  almost  bewildered  by  the  eagerness  with 
which  his  visitor  received  his  announcement. 

"  '  Sawyer,  Mr.  Sawyer ! '  he  exclaimed.  '  You  can- 
not imagine  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  again.  I  don't 
mean  —  I  am  terribly  sorry  to  see  you  like  this  —  but 
I  have  so  often  wished  to  find  you,  and  I  could  never 
succeed  in  doing  so.' 

"  He  turned  as  he  spoke  to  Captain  Montagu. 

"  '  I'll  stay  with  him  for  an  hour  or  two  —  as  long 
as  I  can,'  he  said.     '  I  think,  —  '  he  added,  glancing 


"THAT   CAD   SAWYER."  169 

at  the  extempore  sick-nurse,  and  hesitating  a  little. 
Captain  Montagu  understood  the  glance. 

"  '  Come,  Watson,'  he  said  to  the  young  soldier, 
'  Mr.  Berkeley  will  sit  with  —  with  Mr.  — ' 

"  '  Sawyer,'  said  Jack. 

—  "  '  With  Mr.  Sawyer  for  a  while.  Shall  he  return 
in  an  hour,  Berkeley?' 

"  '  Thank  you,  yes,'  said  Jack,  and  then  he  found 
himself  alone  with  his  old  master. 

"  '  You  said  you  tried  to  trace  me  after  I  left  Rye- 
burn,'  said  Sawyer.  '  Will  you  tell  me  why?  There 
was  no  special  reason  for  it,  was  there  ?  I  know  I 
was  disliked,  but  the  sort  of  enmity  I  incurred  must 
soon  have  died  out.  I  was  too  insignificant  for  it  to 
last.  And  the  one  great  endeavour  I  made  was  to 
injure  no  one.  That  was  why  I  left  hurriedly  — 
before  I  should  be  forced  to  make  any  complaints.' 

"  He  stopped  —  exhausted  already  by  what  he  had 
said.  '  And  I  have  so  much  to  say  to  him,'  he  whis- 
pered regretfully  to  himself. 

"  '  I  know,'  said  Jack  sadly.  '  I  understood  it  all 
before  you  had  left  many  months.' 

"  Mr.  Sawyer  looked  pleased  but  surprised. 

"  '  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  speak  so,'  he  said.  '  I 
remember  that  dear  little  brother  of  yours  when  he 
came  to  see  me  off  that  last  morning  —  I  remember 
his  saying,  '  I'm  sure  Jack  would  have  come  if  he  had 
thought  of  it.'  You  don't  know  what  a  comfort  the 
remembrance  of  that  boy  has  been  to  me  sometimes. 
You  must  tell  him  so.  Dear  me  —  he  must  be  nearly 
grown  up.     Is  he  too  in  the  army?' 


170  "GKANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

'"No,  oh  no,'  said  Jack.  'He  —  he  died  the  year 
after  you  knew  him.' 

"  Sawyer's  eyes  looked  up  wistfully  in  Jack's  face. 
'  Dead  ? '  he  said.     '  That  dear  boy  ?  ' 

"  'Yes,'  Jack  went  on.  'It  was  of  scarlet  fever.  It 
was  very  bad  at  Ryeburn  that  half.  We  both  had  it, 
but  I  was  soon  well  again.  It  was  not  till  Carlo  was 
ill  that  he  told  me  of  having  run  over  to  wish  you 
good-bye  that  morning  —  he  had  been  afraid  I  would 
laugh  at  him  for  being  soft-hearted  —  what  a  young 
brute  I  was  —  forgive  my  speaking  so,  Sawyer,  but  I 
can't  look  back  to  that  time  without  shame.  What 
a  life  we  led  you,  and  how  you  bore  it !  You  were 
too  good  for  us.' 

"  Sawyer  smiled.  '  No,'  he  said.  '  I  cannot  see  it 
that  way.  I  had  not  the  knack  of  it  —  I  was  not  fit 
for  the  position.  The  boys  were  very  good  boys,  as 
boys  go.  It  would  have  been  inexcusable  of  me  to 
have  made  them  suffer  for  what,  after  all,  was  an 
unfortunate  circumstance  only.  I  had  attempted 
what  I  could  not  manage.  And  Carlo  —  he  is  dead 
—  somehow,  perhaps  because  I  am  so  near  death  my- 
self, it  does  not  shock  or  startle  me.  Dear  little 
fellow  that  he  was  ! ' 

"  '  And  while  he  was  ill  he  was  constantly  talking 
about  you.  It  seemed  that  the  only  thing  on  his  con- 
science, poor  little  chap,  that  he  had  joined  at  all  in 
our  treatment  of  you.  And  he  begged  me  — I  would 
have  promised  him  anything,  but  by  that  time  I 
saw  it  plainly  enough  for  myself  —  to  try  to  find  you 
and  ask  you  to  forgive  us  both.     But  I  little  thought 


"THAT   CAD    SAWYER."  171 

it  would  have  been  like  this  —  I  had  fancied  some- 
times — '  Jack  hesitated,  and  the  colour  deepened  in 
his  sunburnt  cheeks. 

"  '  What  ? '  said  Mr.  Sawyer.  '  Do  not  be  afraid 
of  my  misunderstanding  anything  you  say.' 

"  '  I  had  hoped  perhaps  that  if  I  found  you  again  I 
might  be  able  to  be  of  some  use  to  you.  And  now  it 
is  too  late.  For  you  see  we  owe  you  some  reparation 
for  indirectly  forcing  you  to  leave  Ryeburn  —  you 
might  have  risen  there  —  who  knows?  I  can  see 
now  what  a  capital  teacher  you  were.' 

"  Mr.  Sawyer  shook  his  head. 

"  '  I  know  I  could  teach,'  he  said,  '  but  that  was  all. 
I  did  not  understand  boys'  ways.  I  never  was  a 
boy  myself.  But  put  all  this  out  of  your  mind, 
Berkeley,  for  ever.  In  spite  of  all  the  disappoint- 
ment, I  was  very  happy  at  Ryeburn.  The  living 
among  so  many  healthy-minded  happy  human  beings 
was  a  new  and  pleasant  experience  to  me.  Short  as 
it  was,  no  part  of  my  life  has  left  a  pleasanter  remem- 
brance. You  say  you  would  like  to  do  something  for 
me.  Will  you  write  to  my  mother  after  I  am  gone, 
and  tell  her?  Tell  her  how  little  I  suffered,  and  how 
good  every  one  was  to  me,  a  perfect  stranger.  Will 
you  do  this  ? ' 

"  Jack  bent  his  head.     '  Willingly,'  he  said. 

" l  You  will  find  her  address  in  this  book,'  he  went 
on,  handing  a  thick  leather  pocket-book  to  Jack. 
'  Also  a  sort  of  will  —  roughly  drawn  up,  but  correctly 
—  leaving  her  all  I  have,  and  the  amount  of  that,  and 
the    Bank   it  is  in  —  all  is  noted.     I  have  knocked 


172  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAE." 

about  so  —  since  I  was  at  Ryeburn  I  have  tried  so 
many  things  and  been  in  so  many  places,  I  have 
learnt  to  face  all  eventualities.  I  was  so  pleased  to 
get  the  chance  of  coming  out  here  — ' 

"  He  stopped  again. 

" '  You  must  not  tire  yourself  so,'  said  Jack. 

"  '  What  does  it  matter  ?  I  can  die  so  much  more 
easily  if  I  leave  things  clear  —  for,  trifling  as  they  are, 
my  poor  mother's  comfort  depends  on  them.  And 
I  am  so  glad  too  for  you  to  understand  about  me, 
Berkeley.  That  day  —  it  went  to  my  heart  to  have 
to  refuse  you  about  the  subscription  for  the  fire- 
works.' 

" '  Don't  speak  of  it.  I  know  you  had  some  good 
motive,'  said  Jack. 

"'Necessity  —  sheer,  hard  necessity,'  said  poor 
Sawyer.  '  The  money  I  had  got  that  morning  was 
only  just  in  time  to  save  my  younger  brother  from 
life-long  disgrace,  perhaps  imprisonment.' 

"  Then  painfully  —  in  short  and  broken  sentences 
—  he  related  to  Jack  the  history  of  his  hard,  sad,  but 
heroic  life.  He  did  not  think  it  heroic  —  it  seemed  to 
him,  in  his  single-minded  conscientiousness,  that  he 
had  done  no  more  than  his  duty,  and  that  but  im- 
perfectly. He  had  given  his  life  for  others,  and, 
hardest  of  all,  for  others  who  had  little  appreciated 
his  devotion. 

" '  My  father  died  when  I  was  only  about  twelve,' 
he  said.  '  He  had  been  a  clergyman,  but  his  health 
failed,  and  he  had  to  leave  England  and  take  a  small 
charge  in  Switzerland.     There  he  met  my  mother  — 


"THAT   CAD    SAWYER."  173 

a  Swiss,  and  there  I  was  partly  brought  up.  When 
he  died  he  told  me  I  must  take  his  place  as  head  of 
the  family.  I  was  not  so  attractive  as  my  brother 
and  sister ;  I  was  shy  and  reserved.  Naturally  my 
mother  cared  most  for  them.  I  fear  she  was  too  in- 
dulgent. My  sister  married  badly,  and  I  had  to  try 
to  help  her.  My  poor  brother,  he  was  alwa}rs  in 
trouble  and  yet  he  meant  well  —  ' 

"  And  so  he  told  Jack  the  whole  melancholy  his- 
tory, entering  into  details  which  I  have  forgotten, 
and  which,  even  if  I  remember  them,  it  would  be 
only  painful  to  relate.  His  brother  was  now  in 
America  —  doing  well  he  hoped,  thanks  of  course  to 
him;  his  sister's  circumstances  too  had  improved. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Sawyer  had  begun  to 
feel  his  burdens  lessening,  when  he  was  brought  face 
to  face  with  the  knowledge  that  all  in  this  world 
was  over  for  him.  Uncomplainingly  he  had,  through 
all  these  long  years,  borne  the  heat  and  burden  of 
the  day ;  rest  for  him  was  to  be  elsewhere,  not  here. 
But  as  he  had  met  life,  so  he  now  met  death  —  calmly 
and  unrepiningly,  certain  that  hard  as  it  had  been, 
hard  as  it  seemed  now,  it  must  yet  be  for  the  best  — 
the  solving  of  the  riddle  he  left  to  God. 

"And  his  last  thought  was  for  others  —  for  the 
mother  who  had  so  little  appreciated  him,  who  re- 
quired to  lose  him,  perhaps,  to  bring  home  to  her  his 
whole  value. 

"  '  I  have  always  foreseen  the  possibility  of  this,' 
he  said,  '  and  prepared  for  it  as  best  I  could.  Besides 
the  money  I  have  confided  to  you,  I  insured  my  life, 


174  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

most  fortunately,  last  year.  She  will  have  enough 
to  get  on  pretty  comfortably  —  and  tell  her,'  he  hesi- 
tated, '  I  don't  think  she  will  miss  me  very  much.  I 
have  never  had  the  knack  of  drawing  much  affection 
to  myself.  But  tell  her  I  was  quite  satisfied  that  it 
is  all  for  the  best,  and  Louis  may  yet  return  to  cheer 
her  old  age.' 

"  Jack  stayed  till  he  could  stay  no  longer.  Then, 
with  a  grasp  of  the  hand  which  meant  more  than 
many  words,  he  left  his  new,  yet  old  friend,  promis- 
ing to  be  down  again  at  Kadikoi  first  thing  in  the 
morning.  '  But  take  the  papers  with  you,  Berkeley, 
the  papers  and  the  pocket-book,  in  case,  you  know  — ' 
were  Sawyer's  last  words  to  him. 

"  Jack  was  even  earlier  the  next  day  than  he  had 
expected.  But  when  he  got  to  the  tent  the  canvas 
door  was  drawn  to. 

"  '  Asleep  ?  '  he  said  to  the  doctor  of  the  25th  Hus- 
sars, who  came  up  at  that  moment,  recognising  him. 

" '  Yes,'  said  the  doctor,  bending  his  head  rever- 
ently, as  he  said  the  word. 

"  He  unfastened  the  door,  and  signed  to  Jack  to 
follow  him.  Jack  understood  —  yes,  asleep  indeed. 
There  he  lay  —  all  the  pain  and  anxiety  over,  and  as 
the  two  men  gazed  at  the  peaceful  face,  there  came 
into  Jack's  mind  the  same  words  which  his  mother 
had  whispered  over  the  dead  face  of  his  little  brother, 

"  'Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  Heaven.'  " 


CHAPTER   XII. 

A   CHRISTaLAS    ADVENTURE. 

"With  bolted  doors  and  windows  wedged, 
The  care  was  all  in  vain  ; 
For  there  were  noises  in  the  night 
Which  nothing  could  explain." 

Grandmamma  and  the  Fairies. 

The  children  had  gone  quietly  to  bed  the  evening 
before  when  grandmother  had  finished  the  reading  of 
her  story.  They  just  kissed  her  and  said,  "  Thank 
you,  dear  grandmother,"  and  that  was  all.  But  it 
was  all  she  wanted. 

"I  felt,  you  know,"  said  Molly  to  Sylvia  when 
they  were  dressing  the  next  morning,  "  I  felt  a  sort 
of  feeling  as  if  I'd  been  in  church  when  the  music 
was  awfully  lovely.  A  beautiful  feeling,  but  strange 
too,  you  know,  Sylvia  ?  Particularly  as  Uncle  Jack 
died  too.  When  did  he  die  ?  Do  you  know,  Sylvia  ? 
Was  it  at  that  place  ?  " 

"  What  place  ? "  said  Sylvia  curtly.  When  her 
feelings  were  touched  she  had  a  way  of  growing  curt 
and  terse,  sometimes  even  snappish. 

"  That  hot  place  —  without  trees,  and  all  so  dusty 
and  dirty —  Kadi  — Kadi  — I  forget." 

"Oh!  you  stupid  girl.  Kadikoi  was  only  one 
little    wee    village.     You    mean    the    Crimea  —  the 

176 


176  "GEANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

Crimea  is  the  name  of  all  the  conntry  about  there 
—  where  the  war  was." 

"Yes,  of  course.  I  am  stupid,"  said  Molly,  but 
not  at  all  as  if  she  had  any  reason  to  be  ashamed  of 
the  fact.  "  Did  he  never  come  home  from  the 
Crimea?" 

"  No,"  said  Sylvia,  curtly  again,  "  he  never  came 
home." 

For  an  instant  Molly  was  silent.  Then  she  began 
again. 

"  Well,  I  wonder  how  the  old  lady,  that  poor  nice 
man's  mother,  I  mean  —  I  wonder  how  she  got  the 
money  and  all  that,  that  Uncle  Jack  was  to  settle  for 
her.     Shall  we  ask  grandmother,  Sylvia  ?  " 

"No,  of  course  not.  What  does  it  matter  to  us? 
Of  course  it  was  all  properly  done.  If  it  hadn't  been, 
how  would  grandmother  have  known  about  it?" 

"  I  never  thought  of  that.  Still  I  would  like  to 
know.  I  think,"  said  Molly  meditatively,  "  I  think 
I  could  get  grandmother  to  tell  without  exactly  ask- 
ing —  for  fear,  you  know,  of  seeming  to  remind  her 
about  poor  Uncle  Jack." 

"  You'd  much  better  not,"  said  Sylvia,  as  she  left 
the  room. 

But  once  let  Molly  get  a  thing  well  into  her  head, 
"trust  her,"  as  Ralph  said,  "not  to  let  it  out  again 
till  it  suited  her." 

That  very  evening  when  they  were  all  sitting  to- 
gether again,  working  and  talking,  all  except  aunty, 
busily  writing  at  her  little  table  in  the  corner,  Molly 
be can. 


A  CHRISTMAS    ADVENTURE.  177 

"  Grandmother  dear,"  she  said  gently,  "  wasn't  the 
old  lady  dreadfully  sorry  when  she  heard  he  was 
dead?" 

For  a  moment  grandmother  stared  at  her  in  be- 
wilderment —  her  thoughts  had  been  far  away. 
"  What  are  you  saying,  my  dear  ?  "  she  asked. 

Sylvia  frowned  at  Molly  across  the  table.  Too 
well  did  she  know  the  peculiarly  meek  and  submis- 
sive tone  of  voice  assumed  by  Molly  when  bent  on 
—  had  the  subject  been  any  less  serious  than  it  was, 
Sylvia  would  have  called  it  "  mischief." 

"  Molly,"  she  said  reprovingly,  finding  her  frowns 
calmly  ignored. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Molly  sweetly.  "I  mean, 
grandmother  dear,"  she  proceeded,  "  I  mean  the 
mother  of  the  poor  nice  man  that  uncle  was  so  good 
to.  Wasn't  she  dreadfully  sorry  when  she  heard  he 
was  dead  ?  " 

"  I  think  she  was,  dear,"  said  grandmother  un- 
suspiciously. "  Poor  woman,  whatever  her  mistakes 
with  her  children  had  been,  I  felt  dreadfully  sorry 
for  her.  I  saw  her  a  good  many  times,  for  your 
uncle  sent  me  home  all  the  papers  and  directions  — 
'in  case,'  as  poor  Sawyer  had  said  of  himself  —  so  my 
Jack  said  it." 

Grandmother  sighed ;  Sylvia  looked  still  more 
reproachfully  at  Molly ;  Molly  pretended  to  be 
threading  her  needle. 

"  And  I  got  it  all  settled  as  her  son  had  wished. 
He  had  arranged  it  so  that  she  could  not  give  away 
the  money  daring  her  life.     Not  long  after,  she  went 


178  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

to  America  to  her  other  son,  and  I  believe  she  is  still 
living.  He  got  on  very  well,  and  is  now  a  rich  man. 
I  had  letters  from  them  a  few  years  ago  —  nice  let- 
ters. I  think  it  brought  out  the  best  of  them  — 
Philip  Sawyer's  death  I  mean.  Still  —  oh  no  —  they 
did  not  care  for  him,  alive  or  dead,  as  such  a  man 
deserved." 

"  What  a  shame  it  seems  !  "  said  Molly.  "  When  1 
have  children,"  she  went  on  serenely,  "  I  shall  love 
them  all  alike  —  whether  they're  ugly  or  pretty,  if 
anything  perhaps  the  ugliest  most,  to  make  up  to 
them,  you  see." 

"  I  thought  you  were  never  going  to  marry,"  said 
Ralph.  "For  you're  never  going  to  England,  and 
you'll  never  marry  a  Frenchman." 

"  Englishmen  might  come  here,"  replied  Molly. 
"  And  when  you  and  Sylvia  go  to  England,  you 
might  take  some  of  my  photographs  to  show." 

This  was  too  much.  Ralph  laughed  so  that  he 
rolled  on  the  rug,  and  Sylvia  nearly  fell  off  her  chair. 
Even  grandmother  joined  in  the  merriment,  and 
aunty  came  over  from  her  corner  to  ask  what  it  was 
all  about. 

"  I  have  finished  my  story,"  she  said.  "  I  am  so 
glad." 

"And  when,  oh,  when  will  you  read  it?"  cried 
the  children. 

"  On  the  evening  of  the  twenty-second  of  Decem- 
ber. I  fixed  that  while  I  was  writing  it,  for  that  was 
the  day  it  happened  on,"  said  aunty.  "  That  will  be 
next  Monday,  and  this  is  Friday.     Not  so  very  long 


A  CHRISTMAS   ADVENTURE.  179 

to  wait.  And  after  all  it's  a  very  short  story  —  not 
nearly  so  long  as  grandmother's." 

"Never  mind,  we'll  make  it  longer  by  talking 
about  it,"  said  Molly.  "  That's  how  I  did  at  home 
when  I  had  a  very  small  piece  of  cake  for  tea.  I 
took  one  bite  of  cake  to  three  or  four  of  bread  and 
butter.     It  made  it  seem  much  more." 

"  I  can  perfectly  believe  that  you  will  be  ready  to 
provide  the  necessary  amount  of  '  bread  and  butter ' 
to  eke  out  my  story,"  said  aunty  gravely. 

And  Molly  stared  at  her  in  such  comical  bewilder- 
ment as  to  what  she  meant,  that  she  set  them  all  off 
laughing  again. 

Monday  evening  came.  Aunty  took  her  place  at 
the  table  in  front  of  the  lamp,  and  having  satisfied 
herself  that  Molly's  wants  in  the  shape  of  needles 
and  thread,  thimble,  etc.,  were  supplied  for  the  next 
half-hour  at  least,  she  began  as  follows  :  — 


"A  Christmas  Adventure." 

"  On  the  twenty-second  of  December,  in  the  year 
eighteen  hundred  and  fifty  — "  "No,"  said  aunty, 
stopping  short,  "  I  can't  tell  you  the  year.  Molly 
would  make  all  sorts  of  dreadful  calculations  on  the 
spot,  as  to  my  exact  age,  and  the  date  at  which  the 
first  grey  hairs  might  be  looked  for  —  I  will  only 
say  eighteen  hundred  and  something." 

"Fifty  something,"  said  Molly  promptly.  "You 
did  say  that,  aunty." 


180  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

"  Terrible  child!  "  said  aunty.  "Well,  never  mind, 
I'll  begin  again.  "  On  the  twenty -second  of  Decem- 
ber, in  a  certain  year,  I,  Laura  Berkeley,  set  out  with 
my  elder  sister  Mary,  on  a  long  journey.  We  were 
then  living  on  the  western  coast  of  England,  or  Wales 
rather;  we  had  to  cross  the  whole  country,  for  our 
destination  was  the  neighbourhood,  a  few  miles  inland, 
of  a  small  town  on  the  eastern  coast.  Our  journey 
was  not  one  of  pleasure  —  we  were  not  going  to  spend 
'  a  merry  Christmas '  with  near  and  dear  friends  and 
relations.  We  were  going  on  business,  and  our  one 
idea  was  to  get  it  accomplished  as  quickly  as  possible, 
and  hurry  home  to  our  parents  again,  for  otherwise 
their  Christmas  would  be  quite  a  solitary  one.  And 
as  former  Christmases  —  before  we  children  had  been 
scattered,  before  there  were  vacant  chairs  round  the 
fireside  —  had  been  among  the  happiest  times  of  the 
year  in  our  family,  as  in  many  others,  we  felt  doubly 
reluctant  to  risk  spending  it  apart  from  each  other, 
we  four —  all  that  were  left  now  ! 

" '  It  is  dreadfully  cold,  Mary,'  I  said,  when  we 
were  fairly  off,  dear  mother  gazing  wistfully  after  us, 
as  the  train  moved  out  of  the  station  and  her  fiomre 
on  the  platform  grew  smaller  and  smaller,  till  at  last 
we  lost  sight  of  it  altogether.  '  It  is  dreadfully  cold, 
isn't  it  ? ' 

"We  were  tremendously  well  wrapped  up — there 
were  hot-water  tins  in  the  carriage,  and  every  com- 
fort possible  for  winter  travellers.  Yet  it  was  true. 
It  was,  as  I  said,  bitterly  cold. 

" '  Don't    say    that    already,    Laura,'    said    Mary 


A   CHRISTMAS   ADVENTURE.  181 

anxiously,  '  or  I  shall  begin  to  wish  I  had  stood  out 
against  your  coming  with  me.' 

" '  Oh,  dear  Mary,  you  couldn't  have  come  alone,' 
I  said. 

"I  was  only  fifteen.  My  accompanying  Mary 
was  purely  for  the  sake  of  being  a  companion  to  her, 
though  in  my  own  mind  I  thought  it  very  possible 
that,  considering  the  nature  of  the  'business'  we  were 
bent  upon,  I  might  prove  to  be  of  practical  use  too. 
I  must  tell  you  what  this  same  '  business '  was.  It 
was  to  choose  a  house.  Owing  to  my  father's  already 
failing  health,  we  had  left  our  own  old  home  more 
than  a  year  before,  and  till  now  we  had  been  living 
in  a  temporary  house  in  South  Wales.  But  my 
father  did  not  like  the  neighbourhood,  and  fancied 
the  climate  did  not  suit  him,  and  besides  this  we 
could  not  have  had  the  house  after  the  following 
April,  had  we  wished  it.  So  there  had  been  great 
discussions  about  what  we  should  do,  where  we  should 
go  rather,  and  much  consultation  of  advertisement 
sheets  and  agents'  lists.  Already  Mary  had  set  off 
on  several  fruitless  expeditions  in  quest  of  delightful 
'  residences '  which  turned  out  very  much  the  reverse. 
But  she  had  never  before  had  to  go  such  a  long  way 
as  to  East  Hornham,  which  was  the  name  of  the 
post-town  near  which  were  two  houses  to  let,  each 
seemingly  so  desirable  that  we  really  doubted  whether 
it  would  not  be  difficult  to  resist  taking  both.  My 
father  had  known  East  Hornham  as  a  boy,  and 
though  its  neighbourhood  was  not  strikingly  pictu- 
resque, it  was  considered  to  be  eminently  healthy,  and 


182  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

he  was  full  of  eagerness  about  it,  and  wishing  he 
himself  could  have  gone  to  see  the  houses.  But  that 
was  impossible  —  impossible  too  for  my  mother  to 
leave  him  even  for  three  days ;  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  for  Mary  to  go,  and  at  once.  Our  decision 
in  the  case  of  one  of  the  houses  must  not  be  delayed 
a  day,  for  a  gentleman  had  seen  it  and  wanted  to 
take  it,  only  as  the  agent  in  charge  of  it  considered 
that  we  had  '  the  first  refusal,'  he  had  written  to  beg 
my  father  to  send  some  one  to  see  it  at  once. 

"  And  thus  it  came  about  that  Mary  and  I  set  off 
by  ourselves  in  this  dreary  fashion  only  two  days 
before  Christmas !  Mother  had  proposed  our  taking 
a  servant,  but  as  we  knew  that  the  only  one  who 
would  have  been  any  use  to  us  was  the  one  of  most 
use  to  mother,  we  declared  we  should  much  prefer 
the  '  independence  '  of  going  by  ourselves. 

"  By  dint  of  much  examination  of  Bradshaw  we 
had  discovered  that  it  was  possible,  just  possible,  to 
get  to  East  Hornham  the  same  night  about  nine 
o'clock. 

" '  That  will  enable  us  to  get  to  bed  early,  after 
we  have  had  some  supper,  and  the  next  day  we  can 
devote  to  seeing  the  two  houses,  one  or  other  of 
which  must  suit  us,'  said  Mary,  cheerfully.  "''  And 
starting  early  again  the  next  day  we  may  hope  to 
be  back  with  you  on  Christmas  eve,  mother  dear.' 

"The  plan  seemed  possible  enough,  —  one  day 
would  suffice  for  the  houses,  as  there  was  no  need  as 
yet  to  go  into  all  the  details  of  the  apportionment  of 
rooms,  and  so  on.     That  would  be  time  enough  in 


A   CHRISTMAS   ADVENTURE.  183 

the  spring,  when  we  proposed  to  stay  at  East  Horn- 
ham  for  a  week  or  two  at  the  hotel  there,  and  arrange 
our  new  quarters  at  leisure.  It  was  running  it  rather 
close,  however ;  the  least  hitch,  such  as  failing  to 
catch  one  train  out  of  the  many  which  Mary  had 
cleverly  managed  to  fit  in  to  each  other,  would  throw 
our  scheme  out  of  gear;  so  mother  promised  not  to 
be  anxious  if  we  failed  to  appear,  and  we,  on  our 
part,  promised  to  telegraph  if  we  met  with  any  de- 
tention. 

"For  the  first  half  —  three-quarters,  I  might  say — 
of  our  journey  we  got  on  swimmingly.  We  caught 
all  the  trains ;  the  porters  and  guards  were  civility 
itself ;  and  as  our  only  luggage  was  a  small  hand-bag 
that  we  carried  ourselves,  we  had  no  trouble  of  any 
kind.  When  we  got  to  Fexel  Junction,  the  last  im- 
portant station  we  were  to  pass,  our  misfortunes 
began.  Here,  by  rights,  we  should  have  had  a  full 
quarter  of  an  hour  to  wait  for  the  express  which 
should  drop  us  at  East  Hornham  on  its  way  north ; 
but  when  the  guard  heard  our  destination  he  shook 
his  head. 

" '  The  train's  gone,'  he  said.  '  We  are  more  than 
half  an  hour  late.' 

"  And  so  it  proved.  A  whole  hour  and  a  half  had 
we  to  sit  shivering,  in  spite  of  the  big  fire,  in  the 
Fexel  waiting-room,  and  it  was  eleven  at  night  before, 
in  the  slowest  of  slow  trains,  we  at  last  found  our- 
selves within  a  few  miles  of  East  Hornham. 

"  Our  spirits  had  gone  down  considerably  since 
the  morning.     We  were  very  tired,  and  that  has  very 


184  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

much  more  to  do  with  people's  spirits  than  almost 
any  one  realises. 

" '  It  wouldn't  matter  if  Ave  were  going  to  friends,' 
said  Mary.  '  But  it  does  seem  very  strange  and 
desolate  —  we  two  poor  things,  two  days  before 
Christmas,  arriving  at  midnight  in  a  perfectly  strange 
place,  and  nowhere  to  go  to  but  an  inn.' 

" '  But  think  how  nice  it  will  be,  getting  home  to 
mother  again  —  particularly  if  we've  settled  it  all 
nicely  about  the  house,'  I  said. 

"  And  Mary  told  me  I  was  a  good  little  thing,  and 
she  was  very  glad  to  have  me  with  her.  It  was  not 
usual  for  me  to  be  the  braver  of  the  two,  but  you  see 
I  felt  my  responsibilities  on  this  occasion  to  be  great, 
and  was  determined  to  show  myself  worthy  of  them. 

"  And  when  we  did  get  to  the  inn,  the  welcome 
we  received  was  worthy  of  Dr.  Johnson's  praise  of 
inns  in  general.  The  fire  was  so  bright,  the  little 
table  so  temptingly  spread  that  the  spirits  — ■  seldom 
long  depressed  —  of  one-and-twenty  and  fifteen  rose 
at  the  sight.  For  we  were  hungry  as  well  as  tired, 
and  the  cutlets  and  broiled  ham  which  the  good 
people  had  managed  to  keep  beautifully  hot  and  fresh 
for  us  —  possibly  they  were  so  accustomed  to  the 
railway  eccentricities  that  they  had  only  cooked 
them  in  time  for  our  arrival  by  the  later  train,  for  we 
were  told  afterwards  that  no  one  ever  did  catch  the 
express  at  Fexel  Junction,  — the  cutlets  and  ham,  as  I 
was  saying,  and  the  buttered  toast,  and  all  the  other 
good  things,  were  so  good  that  we  made  an  excellent 
supper,  and  slept  the  sleep  of  two  tired  but  perfectly 


A   CHRISTMAS   ADVENTURE.  185 

healthy  young  people  till  seven  o'clock  the  next 
morning. 

"  We  awoke  refreshed  and  hopeful.  But  alas  ! 
when  Mary  pulled  up  the  blind  what  a  sight  met  her 
eyes  !  snow  —  snow  everywhere. 

" '  What  shall  we  do  ?  '  she  said.  '  We  can  never 
judge  of  the  houses  in  this  weather.  And  how  are  we 
to  get  to  them  ?     Dear  me  !  how  unlucky  ! ' 

" '  But  it  has  left  off,  and  it  can't  be  very  thick  in 
these  few  hours,'  I  said.  '  If  only  it  keeps  off  now, 
we  could  manage.' 

"  We  dressed  quickly,  and  had  eaten  our  break- 
fast by  half-past  eight ;  for  at  nine,  by  arrangement, 
the  agent  was  to  call  for  us  to  escort  us  on  our  voyage 
of  discoveiy.  The  weather  gave  promise  of  improv- 
ing, a  faint  wintry  sunshine  came  timidly  out,  and 
there  seemed  no  question  of  more  snow.  When  Mr. 
Turner,  the  agent,  a  respectable  fatherly  sort  of  man, 
made  his  appearance,  he  altogether  pooh-poohed  the 
idea  of  the  roads  being  impassable ;  but  he  went 
on  to  say  that,  to  his  great  regret,  it  was  perfectly 

impossible  for  him  to  accompany  us.      Mr.  H , 

Mr.  Walter  H ,  that  is  to  say,  the  younger  son 

of  the  owner  of  the  Grange,  the  larger  of  the  two 
houses  we  were  to  see,  had  arrived  unexpectedly,  and 
Mr.  Turner  was  obliged  to  meet  him  about  business. 

"  '  I  have  managed  the  business  about  here  for 
them  since  they  left  the  Grange,  and  Mr.  Walter  is 
only  here  for  a  day,'  said  the  communicative  Mr. 
Turner.  '  It  is  most  unfortunate.  But  I  have  en- 
gaged a  comfortable  carriage  for  you,  Miss  Berkeley, 


186  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

and  a  driver  who  knows  the  country  thoroughly,  and 
is  a  very  steady  man.  And,  if  you  will  allow  me, 
I  will  call  in  this  evening  to  hear  what  you  think 
of  the  houses  —  which  you  prefer.'  He  seemed  to 
be  quite  sure  we  should  fix  for  one  or  other. 

" '  Thank  you,  that  will  do  very  well,'  said  Mary, 
—  not  in  her  heart,  to  tell  the  truth,  sorry  that  we 
were  to  do  our  house-hunting  by  ourselves.  '  We 
shall  get  on  quite  comfortably,  I  am  sure,  Mr.  Turner. 
Which  house  shall  we  go  to  see  first  ? ' 

" '  The  farthest  off,  I  would  advise,'  said  Mr. 
Turner.  '  That  is  Hunter's  Hall.  It  is  eight  miles 
at  least  from  this,  and  the  days  are  so  short.' 

"  '  Is  that  the  old  house  with  the  terraced  garden?' 
I  asked. 

"  Mr.  Turner  glanced  at  me  benevolently. 

"  '  Oh  no,  Miss,'  he  said.  '  The  terraced  garden  is 
at  the  Grange.  Hunter's  Hall  is  a  nice  little  place, 
but  much  smaller  than  the  Grange.  The  gardens  at 
the  Grange  are  really  quite  a  show  in  summer.' 

" '  Perhaps  they  will  be  too  much  for  us,'  said 
Mary.  '  My  father  does  not  want  a  very  large  place, 
you  understand,  Mr.  Turner  —  not  being  in  good 
health  he  does  not  wish  to  have  the  trouble  of  look- 
ing after  much.' 

" '  I  don't  think  you  would  find  it  too  much,'  said 
Mr.  Turner.     '  The  head  gardener  is  to  be  left  at  Mr. 

H 's  expense,  and  he  is  very  trustworthy.     But 

I  can  explain  all  these  details  this  evening  if  you  will 
allow  me,  after  you  have  seen  the  house,'  and,  so  say- 
ing, the  obliging  agent  bade  us  good  morning. 


A   CHRISTMAS    ADVENTURE.  187 

" '  I  am  sure  we  shall  like  the  Grange  the  best,'  I 
said  to  Mary,  when,  about  ten  o'clock,  we  found  our- 
selves in  the  carriage  Mr.  Turner  had  provided  for 
us,  slowly,  notwithstanding  the  efforts  of  the  two  fat 
horses  that  were  drawing  us,  making  our  way  along 
the  snow-covered  roads. 

"  '  I  don't  know,'  said  Mary.  '  I  am  afraid  of  its 
being  too  large.  But  certainly  Hunter's  Hall  is  a 
long  way  from  the  town,  and  that  is  a  disadvantage.' 

"  A  very  long  way  it  seemed  before  we  got  there. 

"  ;  I  could  fancy  we  had  been  driving  nearly  twenty 
miles  instead  of  eight,'  said  Mary,  when  at  last  the 
carriage  stopped  before  a  sort  of  little  lodge,  and  the 
driver  informed  us  we  must  get  out  there,  there  being 
no  carriage  drive  up  to  the  house. 

" '  Objection  number  one,'  said  Mary,  as  we  picked 
our  steps  along  the  garden  path  which  led  to  the 
front  door.  '  Father  would  not  like  to  have  to  walk 
along  here  every  time  he  went  out  a  drive.  Dear 
me ! '  she  added,  '  how  dreadfully  difficult  it  is  to 
judge  of  any  place  in  snow!  The  house  looks  so 
dirt}r,  and  yet  very  likely  in  summer  it  is  a  pretty 
bright  white  house.' 

"  It  was  not  a  bad  little  house  :  there  were  two  or 
three  good  rooms  downstairs  and  several  fairly  good 
upstairs,  besides  a  number  of  small  inconvenient 
rooms  that  might  have  been  utilised  by  a  very  large 
family,  but  would  be  no  good  at  all  to  us.  Then  the 
kitchens  were  poor,  low-roofed,  and  straggling. 

" '  It  might  do,'  said  Mary,  doubtfully.  '  It  is  more 
the  look  of  it  than  anything  else  that  I  dislike.     It 


188  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

does  not  look  as  if  gentle-people  had  lived  in  it  — 
it  seems  like  a  better-class  farm-house.' 

"  And  so  it  proved  to  be,  for  on  inquiry  we  learnt 
from  the  woman  who  showed  us  through,  that  it  never 
had  been  anything  but  a  farm-house  till  the  present 
owner  had  bought  it,  improved  it  a  little,  and  fur- 
nished it  in  a  rough-and-ready  fashion  for  a  summer 
residence  for  his  large  family  of  children. 

" '  We  should  need  a  great  deal  of  additional  fur- 
niture,' said  Mary.  '  Much  of  it  is  very  poor  and 
shabby.  The  rent,  however,  is  certainly  very  low  — 
to  some  extent  that  would  make  up.' 

"  Then  we  thanked  the  woman  in  charge,  and 
turned  to  go.  '  Dear  me  ! '  said  Mary,  glancing  at 
her  watch,  '  it  is  already  half-past  twelve.  I  hope 
the  driver  knows  the  way  to  the  Grange,  or  it  will 
be  dark  before  we  get  there.  How  far  is  it  from 
here  to  East  Hornham?'  she  added,  turning  again 
to  our  guide. 

"  '  Ten  miles  good,'  said  the  woman. 

"  '  I  thought  so,'  said  Mary.  '  I  shall  have  a  crow 
to  pluck  with  that  Mr.  Turner  for  sajdng  it  was  only 
eight.     And  how  far  to  the  Grange  ?  ' 

"  '  Which  Grange,  Miss  ?  There  are  two  or  three 
hereabouts.' 

"  Mary  named  the  family  it  belonged  to. 

"  '  Oh  it  is  quite  seven  miles  from  here,  though  not 
above  two  from  East  Hornham.' 

"  '  Seven  and  two  make  nine,'  said  Mary.  '  Why 
didn't  you  bring  us  here  past  the  Grange  ?  It  is  a 
shorter  way,'  she  added  to  the  driver,  as  we  got  into 
the  carriage  again. 


A   CHRISTMAS   ADVENTURE.  189 

"  The  man  touched  his  hat  respectfully,  and  replied 
that  he  had  brought  us  round  the  other  way  that  we 
might  see  more  of  the  country. 

"  We  laughed  to  ourselves  at  the  idea  of  seeing  the 
country,  shut  up  in  a  close  carriage  and  hardly  daring 
to  let  the  tips  of  our  noses  peep  out  to  meet  the  bitter, 
biting  cold.  Besides,  what  was  there  to  see  ?  It  was 
a  flat,  bare  country,  telling  plainly  of  the  near  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  sea,  and  with  its  present  mantle  of 
snow,  features  of  no  kind  were  to  be  discerned.  Roads, 
fields,  and  all  were  undistinguishable. 

"  '  I  wonder  he  knows  his  way,'  we  said  to  each 
other  more  than  once,  and  as  we  drove  on  farther  we 
could  not  resist  a  slight  feeling  of  alarm  as  to  the 
weather.  The  sky  grew  unnaturally  dark  and  gloomy, 
with  the  blue-grey  darkness  that  so  often  precedes  a 
heavy  fall  of  snow,  and  we  felt  immensely  relieved 
when  at  last  the  carriage  slackened  before  a  pair  of 
heavy  old-fashioned  gates,  which  were  almost  imme- 
diately opened  by  a  young  woman  who  ran  out  from 
one  of  the  two  lodges  guarding  each  a  side  of  the 
avenue. 

"  The  drive  up  to  the  house  looked  ver}^  pretty 
even  then  —  or  rather  as  if  it  would  be  excpuisitely  so 
in  spring  and  summer  time. 

" '  I'm  sure  there  must  be  lots  and  lots  of  prim- 
roses and  violets  and  periwinkles  down  there  in  those 
woody  places,'  I  cried.  '  Oh  Mary,  Mary,  do  take 
this  house.' 

"  Mary  smiled,  but  I  could  see  that  she  too  was 
pleased.    And  when  we  saw  the  house  itself  the  pleas- 


190  u  GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

ant  impression  was  not  decreased.  It  was  built  of 
nice  old  red  stone,  or  brick,  with  grey  mullions  and 
gables  to  the  roof.  The  hall  was  oak  wainscotted  all 
round,  and  the  rooms  that  opened  out  of  it  were  home- 
like and  comfortable,  as  well  as  spacious.  Certainly 
it  was  too  large,  a  great  deal  too  large,  but  then  we 
could  lock  off  some  of  the  rooms. 

" '  People  often  do  so,'  I  said.  '  I  think  it  is  a 
delicious  house,  don't  you,  Mary?' 

"  One  part  was  much  older  than  the  other,  and  it 
was  curiously  planned,  the  garden,  the  terraced  gar- 
den behind  which  I  had  heard  of,  rising  so,  that  after 
going  upstairs  in  the  house  you  yet  found  yourself 
on  a  level  with  one  part  of  this  garden,  and  could 
walk  out  on  to  it  through  a  little  covered  passage. 
The  rooms  into  which  this  passage  opened  were  the 
oldest  of  all  —  one  in  particular,  tapestried  all  round, 
struck  me  greatly. 

"  '  I  hope  it  isn't  haunted,'  I  said  suddenly.  Mary 
smiled,  but  the  young  woman  looked  grave. 

"  '  You  don't  mean  to  say  it  is  f '  I  exclaimed. 

" '  Well,  Miss,  I  was  housemaid  here  several  years, 
and  I  certainly  never  saw  nor  heard  nothing.  But 
the  young  gentlemen  did  used  to  say  things  like  that 
for  to  frighten  us,  and  for  me  I'm  one  as  never  likes  to 
say  as  to  those  things  that  isn't  for  us  to  understand.' 

" '  I  do  believe  it  is  haunted,'  I  cried,  more  and 
more  excited,  and  though  Mary  checked  me  I  would 
not  leave  off  talking  about  it. 

"  We  were  turning  to  go  out  into  the  gardens  when 
an  exclamation  from  Mary  caught  my  attention. 


A   CHRISTMAS   ADVENTURE.  191 

"  '  It  is  snowing  again  and  so  fast,'  she  said,  '  and 
just  see  how  dark  it  is.' 

" '  'Twill  lighten  up  again  when  the  snow  leaves 
off,  Miss,'  said  the  woman.  '  It  is  not  three  o'clock 
yet.  I'll  make  you  a  bit  of  fire  in  a  minute  if  you 
like,  in  one  of  the  rooms.  In  here  — '  she  added, 
opening  the  door  of  a  small  bedroom  next  to  the  tap- 
estry room,  '  it'll  light  in  a  minute,  the  chimney  can't 
be  cold,  for  there  was  one  yesterday.  I  put  fires  in 
each  in  turns.' 

"  We  felt  sorry  to  trouble  her,  but  it  seemed  really 
necessary,  for  just  then  our  driver  came  to  the  door 
to  tell  us  he  had  had  to  take  out  the  horses  and  put 
them  into  the  stable. 

"  '  They  seemed  dead  beat,'  he  said, '  with  the  heavy 
roads.  And  besides  it  would  be  impossible  to  drive 
in  the  midst  of  such  very  thick  falling  snow.  'Twould 
be  better  to  wait  an  hour  or  two,  till  it  went  off. 
There  was  a  bag  in  the  carriage — should  he  bring  it 
in?' 

"  We  had  forgotten  that  we  had  brought  with  us 
some  sandwiches  and  buns.  In  our  excitement  we 
had  never  thought  how  late  it  was,  and  that  we  must 
be  hungry.  Now,  with  the  prospect  of  an  hour  or 
two's  enforced  waiting  with  nothing  to  do,  we  were 
only  too  thankful  to  be  reminded  of  our  provisions. 
The  fire  was  already  burning  brightly  in  the  little 
room  — '  Mr.  Walter's  room  '  the  young  woman  called 
it — 'That  must  be  the  gentleman  that  was  to  be  with 
Mr.  Turner  to-day,'  I  whispered  to  Mary  —  and  she 
veiy  good-naturedly  ran  back  to  her  own  little  house 


192  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

to  fetch  the  necessary  materials  for  a  cup  of  tea  for 
us. 

"  '  It  is  a  fearful  storm,'  she  informed  us  when  she 
ran  back  again,  white  from  head  to  foot,  even  with 
the  short  exposure,  and  indeed  from  the  windows  we 
could  see  it  for  ourselves.  '  The  snow  is  coming  that 
thick  and  fast,  I  could  hardly  find  my  own  door,'  she 
went  on,  while  she  busied  herself  with  preparations 
for  our  tea.  '  It  is  all  very  well  in  summer  here,  but 
it  is  lonesome-like  in  winter  since  the  family  went 
away.  And  my  husband's  been  ill  for  some  weeks 
too  —  I  have  to  sit  up  with  him  most  nights.  Last 
night,  just  before  the  snow  began,  I  did  get  such  a 
fright — all  of  a  sudden  something  seemed  to  come 
banging  at  our  door,  and  then  I  heard  a  queer 
breathing  like.  I  opened  the  door,  but  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen,  but  perhaps  it  was  that  that  made 
me  look  strange  when  Miss  here,'  pointing  to  me, 
'  asked  me  if  the  house  was  haunted.  Whatever  it  was 
that  came  to  our  door  certainly  rushed  off  this  way.' 

"  '  A  dog,  or  even  a  cat,  perhaps,'  said  Mary. 

"  The  woman  shook  her  head. 

" '  A  cat  couldn't  have  made  such  a  noise,  and 
there's  not  a  dog  about  the  place,'  she  said. 

"I  listened  with  great  interest  —  but  Mary's 
thoughts  were  otherwise  engaged.  There  was  not  a 
doubt  that  the  snow-storm,  instead  of  going  off,  was 
increasing  in  severity.  We  drank  our  tea  and  ate 
our  sandwiches,  and  put  off  our  time  as  well  as  we 
could  till  five  o'clock.  It  was  now  of  course  perfectly 
dark  but  for  the  light  of  the  fire.     We  were  glad 


A   CHRISTMAS    ADVENTURE.  193 

when  our  friend  from  the  lodge  returned  with  a  couple 
of  tallow  candles,  blaming  herself  for  having  forgotten 
them. 

" '  I  really  don't  know  what  we  should  do,'  said 
Mary  to  her.  '  The  storm  seems  getting  worse  and 
worse.  I  wonder  what  the  driver  thinks  about  it. 
Is  he  in  the  house,  do  you  know  ? ' 

" '  He's  sitting  in  our  kitchen,  Miss,'  replied  the 
young  woman.  '  He  seems  very  much  put  about. 
Shall  I  tell  him  to  come  up  to  speak  to  you? ' 

"  '  Thank  you,  I  wish  you  would,'  said  Mary.  '  But 
I  am  really  sorry  to  bring  you  out  so  much  in  this 
dreadful  weather.' 

"  The  young  woman  laughed  cheerfully. 

"  '  I  don't  mind  it  a  bit,  Miss,'  she  said  ;  '  if  you 
only  knew  how  glad  I  shall  be  if  you  come  to  live 
here.  Nothing'd  be  a  trouble  if  so  be  as  we  could  get 
a  kind  family  here  again.     'Twould  be  like  old  times.' 

"  She  hastened  away,  and  in  a  few  minutes  returned 
to  say  that  the  driver  was  downstairs  waiting  to  speak 
to  us  —  " 

"  Laura,  my  dear,"  said  grandmother,  "  do  you 
know  it  is  a  quarter  to  ten.    How  much  more  is  there  ?  " 

Aunty  glanced  through  the  pages  — 

"  About  as  much  again,"  she  said.  "  No,  scarcely 
so  much." 

"  Well  then,  dears,  it  must  wait  till  to-morrow," 
said  grandmother. 

"  Oh,  grandmother !  "  remonstrated  the  children. 

"  Aunty  said  it  was  a  shorter  story  than  yours, 
grandmother,"  said  Molly  in  a  half  reproachful  voice. 


194  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

"And  are  you  disappointed  that  it  isn't?"  said 
aunty,  laughing.  "I  really  didn't  think  it  was  so 
long  as  it  is." 

"  Oh !  aunty,  I  only  wish  it  was  twenty  times  as 
long,"  said  Molly.  "  I  shouldn't  mind  hearing  it  all 
over  again  this  minute,  only  you  see  I  do  dreadfully 
want  to  hear  the  end.  I  am  sure  they  had  to  stay 
there  all  night,  and  that  something  frightens  them. 
Oh  it's  'squisitely  delicious,"  she  added,  "jigging"  up 
and  down  on  her  chair. 

"You're  a  'squisitely  delicious  little  humbug,"  said 
aunty,  laughing.  "  Now  good  night  all  three  of  you 
and  get  to  bed  as  fast  as  you  can,  as  I  don't  want 
'  grandmother  dear  '  to  scold  me  for  your  all  being 
tired  and  sleepy  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

A   CHRISTMAS   ADVENTURE.  —  PART   II. 

"And  as  for  poor  old  Rover, 
I'm  sure  he  meant  no  harm." 

Old  Doggie. 

"  Molly  is  too  sharp  by  half,"  said  aunty,  the  fol- 
lowing evening,  when  she  was  preparing  to  go  on 
with  her  story.  "  We  had  to  stay  there  all  night  — 
that  was  the  result  of  Mary's  conversation  with  the 
driver,  the  details  of  which  I  may  spare  you.  Let 
me  see,  where  was  I  ?  '  The  driver  scratched  his 
head,'  —  no,  —  ah,  here  it  is !  '  He  was  waiting  down- 
stairs to  speak  to  us ; '  and  the  result  of  the  speaking 
I  have  told  you,  so  I'll  go  on  from  here  — 

"  It  was  so  cold  downstairs  in  the  tireless,  deserted 
house,  that  Mary  and  I  were  glad  to  come  upstairs 
again  to  the  little  room  where  we  had  been  sitting, 
which  already  seemed  to  have  a  sort  of  home-like 
feeling  about  it.  But  once  arrived  there  we  looked 
at  each  other  in  dismay. 

"'Isn't  it  dreadful,  Mary?'  I  said. 

" '  And  we  shall  miss  the  morning  train  from  East 
Hornham  —  the  only  one  by  which  we  can  get  through 
the  same  day  —  that  is  the  worst  of  all,'  she  said. 

" '  Can't  we  be  in  time  ?  It  is  only  two  or  three 
miles  from  here  to  East  Hornham,'  I  said. 

195 


196  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

" '  Yes,  but  you  forget  I  must  see  Mr.  Turner  again. 
If  I  fix  to  take  this  house,  and  it  seems  very  likely, 
I  must  not  go  away  without  all  the  particulars  for 
father.  There  are -ever  so  many  things  to  ask.  I 
have  a  list  of  father's,  as  long  as  my  arm,  of  questions 
and  inquiries.' 

" '  Ah,  yes,'  I  agreed ;  '  and  then  we  have  to  get 
our  bag  at  the  hotel,  and  to  pay  our  bill  there.' 

" '  And  to  choose  rooms  there  to  come  to  at  first,' 
said  Mary.  '  Oh  yes,  our  getting  away  by  that  train 
is  impossible.  And  then  the  Christmas  trains  are 
like  Sunday.  Even  by  travelling  all  night  we  can- 
not get  home,  I  fear.  I  must  telegraph  to  mother  as 
soon  as  we  get  back  to  East  Hornham.' 

"  The  young  woman  had  not  returned.  We  were 
wondering  what  had  become  of  her  when  she  made 
her  appearance  laden  with  everything  she  could  think 
of  for  our  comfort.  The  bed,  she  assured  us,  could 
not  be  damp,  as  it  had  been  '  to  the  fire '  all  the  pre- 
vious day,  and  she  insisted  on  putting  on  a  pair  of 
her  own  sheets,  coarse  but  beautifully  white,  and 
fetching  from  another  room  additional  blankets, 
which  in  their  turn  had  to  be  subjected  to  '  airing,' 
or  '  firing '  rather.  To  the  best  of  her  ability  she 
provided  us  with  toilet  requisites,  apologising,  poor 
thing,  for  the  absence  of  what  we  '  of  course,  must 
be  used  to,'  —  as  she  expressed  it,  in  the  shape  of  fine 
towels,  perfumed  soap,  and  so  on.  And  she  ended  by 
cooking  us  a  rasher  of  bacon  and  poached  eggs  for 
supper,  all  the  materials  for  which  refection  she  had 
brought  from  her   own   cottage.     She  was   so   kind 


A   CHRISTMAS   ADVENTURE.  197 

that  I  shrank  from  suggesting  to  Mary  the  objection 
to  the  proposed  arrangement,  which  was  all  this  time 
looming  darkly  before  me.  But  when  our  friend 
wTas  about  to  take  her  leave  for  the  night  I  could 
keep  it  back  no  longer. 

"'Mary,'  I  whispered,  surprised  and  somewhat 
annoyed  at  my  sister's  calmness,  '  are  you  going  to 
let  her  go  away  ?  You  and  I  can't  stay  here  all  night 
alone.' 

" '  Do  you  mean  that  you  are  frightened,  Laura 
dear?' she  said  kindly,  in  the  same  tone.  'I  don't 
see  that  there  is  anything  to  be  frightened  of;  and  if 
there  were,  what  good  would  another  girl  —  for  this 
young  woman  is  very  little  older  than  I  —  do  us  ? ' 

" '  She  knows  the  house,  any  way,  and  it  wouldn't 
seem  so  bad,'  I  replied,  adding  aloud,  '  Oh,  Mrs. 
Atkins '  —  for  I  had  heard  the  driver  mention  her 
name  —  'can't  you  stay  in  the  house  with  us?  We 
shall  feel  so  dreadfully  strange.' 

" '  I  would  have  done  so  most  gladly,  Miss,'  the 
young  woman  began,  but  Mary  interrupted  her. 

" '  I  know  you  can't,'  she  said ;  '  your  husband  is 
ill.  Laura,  it  would  be  very  wrong  of  us  to  propose 
such  a  thing.' 

" '  That's  just  how  it  is,'  said  Mrs.  Atkins.  '  My 
husband  has  such  bad  nights  he  can't  be  left,  and 
there's  no  one  I  could  get  to  sit  with  him.  Besides, 
it's  such  a  dreadful  night  to  seek  for  any  one.' 

" '  Then  the  driver,'  I  said ;  '  couldn't  he  stay 
somewhere  downstairs?  lie  might  have  a  fire  in  one 
of  the  rooms.' 


198  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

"  Mrs.  Atkins  wished  it  had  been  thought  of 
before.  'Giles,'  —  which  it  appeared  was  the  man's 
name  —  would  have  done  it  in  a  minute,  she  was 
sure,  but  it  was  too  late.  He  had  already  set  off 
to  seek  a  night's  lodging  and  some  supper,  no  doubt, 
at  a  little  inn  half  a  mile  down  the  road. 

"  '  An  inn  ? '  I  cried.  '  I  wish  we  had  gone  there 
too.  It  would  have  been  far  better  than  staying 
here.' 

" '  Oh,  it's  a  very  poor  place  —  "  The  Drover's 
Rest,"  they  call  it.  It  would  never  do  for  you, 
Miss,'  said  Mrs.  Atkins,  looking  distressed  that  all 
her  efforts  for  our  comfort  appeared  to  have  been  in 
vain.  '  Giles  might  ha'  thought  of  it  himself,'  she 
added,  '  but  then  you  see  it  would  never  strike  him 
but  what  here  —  in  the  Grange  —  you'd  be  as  safe  as 
safe.  It's  not  a  place  for  bunglaries  and  such  like, 
hereabouts.' 

"  '  And  of  course  we  shall  be  quite  safe,'  said  Mary. 
'  Laura  dear,  what  has  made  you  so  nervous  all  of  a 
sudden  ? ' 

"  I  did  not  answer,  for  I  was  ashamed  to  speak  of 
Mrs.  Atkins'  story  of  the  strange  noises  she  had 
heard  the  previous  night,  which  evidently  Mary  had 
forgotten,  but  I  followed  the  young  woman  with 
great  eagerness,  to  see  that  we  were  at  least 
thoroughly  well  defended  by  locks  and  bolts  in  our 
solitude.  The  tapestry  room  and  that  in  which  we 
were  to  sleep  could  be  locked  off  from  the  rest  of  the 
empty  house,  as  a  door  stood  at  the  head  of  the  little 
stair  leading  up  to  them  —  so  far,  so  well.     But  Mrs. 


A   CHRISTMAS    ADVENTURE.  199 

Atkins  proceeded  to  explain  that  the  door  at  the  out- 
side end  of  the  other  passage,  leading  into  the  garden, 
could  not  be  locked  except  from  the  outside. 

" '  I  can  lock  you  in,  if  you  like,  Miss,'  she  said, 
'  and  come  round  first  thing  in  the  morning ; '  but 
this  suggestion  did  not  please  us  at  all. 

"  '  Xo,  thank  you,'  said  Mary,  '  for  if  it  is  fine  in  the 
morning  I  mean  to  get  up  very  early  and  walk  round 
the  gardens.' 

" '  No,  thank  you,'  said  I,  adding  mentally,  '  Sup- 
posing we  were  frightened  it  would  be  too  dreadful 
not  to  be  able  to  get  out.'  — '  But  we  can  lock  the 
door  from  the  tapestry  room  into  the  passage,  from 
our  side,  can't  we  ? '  I  said,  and  Mrs.  Atkins  replied 
'  Oh  yes,  of  course  you  can,  Miss,'  turning  the  key  in 
the  lock  of  the  door  as  she  spoke.  '  Master  never  let 
the  young  gentlemen  lock  the  doors  when  they  were 
boys,'  she  added,  '  for  they  were  always  breaking  the 
locks.  So  you  see,  Miss,  there's  a  hook  and  staple  to 
this  door,  as  well  as  the  lock.' 

" '  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Atkins,'  said  Mary,  '  that  will 
do  nicely,  I  am  sure.  And  now  we  must  really  not 
keep  you  any  longer  from  your  husband.  Good 
night,  and  thank  you  very  much.' 

"'Good  night,'  I  repeated,  and  we  both  stood  at 
the  door  of  the  passage  as  she  made  her  way  out  into 
the  darkness.  The  snow  was  still  falling  very 
heavily,  and  the  blast  of  cold  wind  that  made  its  way 
in  was  piercing. 

" '  Oli,  Mary,  come  back  to  the  fire,'  I  cried.  '  Isn't 
it  awfully  cold  ?     Oh,  Mary  dear,'  I  added,  when  we 


200  "  GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

had  both  crouched  down  beside  the  welcome  warmth 
for  a  moment,  '  won't  it  be  delicious  to  be  back  with 
mother  again?  We  never  thought  we'd  have  such 
adventures,  did  we  ?  Can  you  fancy  this  house  ever 
feeling  home-y,  Mary?     It  seems  so  dreary  now.' 

" '  Yes,  but  you've  no  idea  how  different  it  will 
seem  even  to-morrow  morning,  if  it's  a  bright  day,' 
said  Mary.  '  Let's  plan  the  rooms,  Laura.  Don't 
you  think  the  one  to  the  south  with  the  crimson 
curtains  will  be  best  for  father?  ' 

"  So  she  talked  cheerfully,  more,  I  am  sure  — 
though  I  did  not  see  it  at  the  time  —  to  encourage 
me  than  to  amuse  herself.  And  after  awhile,  when 
she  saw  that  I  was  getting  sleepy,  she  took  a  candle 
into  the  outer  room,  saying  she  would  lock  the  door 
and  make  all  snug  for  the  night.  I  heard  her,  as  I 
thought,  lock  the  door,  then  she  came  back  into  our 
room  and  also  locked  the  door  leading  from  it  into 
the  tapestry  room. 

"'You  needn't  lock  that  too,'  I  said  sleepily ;  'if 
the  tapestry  door  is  locked,  we're  all  right ! ' 

"  '  I  think  it's  better,'  said  Mary  quietly,  and  then 
we  undressed,  so  far  as  we  could  manage  to  do  so  in 
the  extremely  limited  state  of  our  toilet  arrangements, 
and  went  to  bed. 

"  I  fell  asleep  at  once.  Mary,  she  afterwards  told 
me,  lay  awake  for  an  hour  or  two,  so  that  when  she 
did  fall  asleep  her  slumber  was  unusually  profound. 
I  think  it  must  have  been  about  midnight  when  I 
woke  suddenly,  with  the  feeling  —  the  indescrib- 
able feeling  —  that  something  had  awakened  me.     I 


A   CHRISTMAS   ADVENTURE.  201 

listened,  first  of  all  with  only  the  ear  that  happened 
to  be  uppermost  —  then,  as  my  courage  gradually 
returned  again,  I  ventured  to  move  slightly,  so  that 
both  ears  were  uncovered.  No,  nothing  was  to  be 
heard.  I  was  trying  to  compose  myself  to  sleep 
again,  persuading  myself  that  I  had  been  dreaming, 
when  again  —  yes  most  distinctly  —  there  was  a 
sound.  A  sort  of  shuffling,  scraping  noise,  which 
seemed  to  come  from  the  direction  of  the  passage 
leading  from  the  tapestry  room  to  the  garden.  Fear 
made  me  selfish.  I  pushed  Mary,  then  shook  her 
gently,  then  more  vigorously. 

"  '  Mary,'  I  whispered.  '  Oh,  Mary,  do  wake  up. 
I  hear  such  a  queer  noise.' 

"  Mary,  poor  Mary  awoke,  but  she  had  been  very 
tired.  It  was  a  moment  or  two  before  she  collected 
her  faculties. 

"'Where  are  we?  What  is  it?'  she  said.  Then 
she  remembered.  '  Oh  yes  —  what  is  the  matter, 
Laura  ? ' 

" '  Listen,'  I  said,  and  Mary,  calmly  self-controlled 
as  usual,  sat  up  in  bed  and  listened.  The  sound  was 
quite  distinct,  even  louder  than  I  had  heard  it. 

'"  Oh,  Mary  ! '  I  cried.  '  Somebody's  trying  to  get 
in.  Oh,  Mary,  what  shall  we  do?  Oh,  I  am  so 
frightened.  I  shall  die  with  fright.  Oh,  I  wish  I 
had  never  come  ? ' 

"  I  was  on  the  verge  of  hysterics,  or  something  of 
the  kind. 

"  Mary,  herself  a  little  frightened,  as  she  after- 
wards confessed  —  in  the  circumstances  what  young 


202  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

girl  could  have  helped  being  so?  —  turned  to  me 
quietly.  Something  in  the  very  tone  of  her  voice 
seemed  to  soothe  me. 

"  '  Laura  dear,'  she  said  gravely,  '  did  you  say  your 
prayers  last  night  ? ' 

"  '  Oh  yes,  oh  yes,  indeed  I  did.  But  I'll  say  them 
again  now  if  you  like,'  I  exclaimed. 

"  Even  then,  Mary  could  hardly  help  smiling. 

" '  That  isn't  what  I  meant,'  she  said.  '  I  mean, 
what  is  the  good  of  saying  your  prayers  if  you  don't 
believe  what  you  say  ?  ' 

"  '  But  I  do,  I  do,'  I  sobbed. 

"  '  Then  why  are  }'ou  so  terrified  ?  You  asked 
God  to  take  care  of  you.  When  you  said  it  you 
believed  He  would.  Why  not  believe  it  now  ?  Noiv, 
when  you  are  tried,  is  the  time  to  show  if  you  do 
mean  what  you  say.  I  am  sure  God  will  take  care  of 
us.  Now  try,  dear,  to  be  reasonable,  and  I  will  get 
up  and  see  what  it  is.' 

"  '  But  don't  leave  me,  and  I  will  try  to  be  good,' 
I  exclaimed,  jumping  out  of  bed  at  the  same  moment 
that  she  did,  and  clinging  to  her  as  she  moved.  '  Oh, 
Mary,  don't  you  think  perhaps  we'd  better  go  back 
to  bed  and  put  our  fingers  in  our  ears,  and  by  morn- 
ing it  wouldn't  seem  anything.' 

"  '  And  fancy  ever  after  that  there  had  been  some- 
thing mysterious,  when  perhaps  it  is  something  quite 
simple,'  said  Mary.  '  No,  I  shouldn't  like  that  at  all. 
Of  course  I  won't  do  anything  rash,  but  I  would  like 
to  find  out.' 

" '  The    fire,  fortunately,  was  not  yet    quite    out. 


A   CHRISTMAS    ADVENTURE.  203 

Mary  lighted  one  of  the  candles  with  a  bit  of  paper 
from  a  spark  which  she  managed  to  coax  into  a  flame. 
The  noise  had,  in  the  meantime,  subsided,  but  just  as 
we  had  got  the  candle  lighted,  it  began  again. 

"  '  Now,'  said  Mary,  '  you  stay  here,  Laura,  and  I'll 
go  into  the  next  room  and  listen  at  the  passage  door.' 
She  spoke  so  decidedly  that  I  obeyed  in  trembling. 
Mary  armed  herself  with  the  poker,  and,  unlocking 
our  door,  went  into  the  tapestry  room,  first  lighting 
the  second  candle,  which  she  left  with  me.  She 
crossed  the  room  to  the  door  as  she  had  said.  1 
thought  it  was  to  listen  ;  in  reality  her  object  was  to 
endeavour  to  turn  the  key  in  the  lock  of  the  tapestry 
room  door,  which  she  had  not  been  able  to  do  the 
night  before,  for  once  the  door  was  shut  the  key 
would  not  move,  and  she  had  been  obliged  to  content 
herself  with  the  insecure  hold  of  the  hook  and 
staple.  Now  it  had  struck  her  that  by  inserting  the 
poker  in  the  handle  of  the  key  she  might  succeed  in 
turning  it,  and  thus  provide  ourselves  with  a  double 
defence.  For  if  the  intruder  —  dog,  cat,  whatever  it 
was  —  burst  the  outer  door  and  got  into  the  tapestry 
room,  my  fears,  she  told  me  afterwards,  would,  she 
felt  sure,  have  become  uncontrollable.  It  was  a 
brave  thing  to  do  —  was  it  not?  She  deserved  to 
succeed,  and  she  did.  With  the  poker's  help  she 
managed  to  turn  the  key,  and  then  with  a  sigh  of 
relief  she  stood  still  for  a  moment  listening.  The 
sounds  continued  —  whatever  it  was  it  was  evidently 
what  Mrs.  Atkins  had  heard  the  night  before — a 
shuffling,  rushing-about   sound,  then   a   sort   of   im- 


204  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

patient  breathing.  Mary  came  back  to  me  somewhat 
reassured. 

"  '  Laura,'  she  said, '  I  keep  to  my  first  opinion.  It 
is  a  dog,  or  a  cat,  or  some  animal.' 

"  '  But  suppose  it  is  a  mad  dog  ?  '  I  said,  somewhat 
unwilling  to  own  that  my  terrors  had  been  exag- 
gerated. 

" '  It  is  possible,  but  not  probable,'  she  replied. 
'  Any  way  it  can't  get  in  here.  Now,  Laura,  it  is 
two  o'clock  by  my  watch.  There  is  candle  enough 
to  last  an  hour  or  two,  and  I  will  make  up  the  fire 
again.  Get  into  bed  and  try  to  go  to  sleep,  for 
honestly  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  cause  for  alarm.' 

"  '  But  Mary,  I  can't  go  to  sleep  unless  you  come 
to  bed  too,  and  if  you  don't,  I  can't  believe  you  think 
it's  nothing,'  I  said.  So,  to  soothe  me,  she  gave  up 
her  intention  of  remaining  on  guard  by  the  fire,  and 
came  to  bed,  and,  wonderful  to  relate,  we  both  went 
to  sleep,  and  slept  soundly  till  —  what  o'clock  do 
you  think  ? 

"  It  was  nine  o'clock  when  I  awoke ;  Mary  was 
standing  by  me  fully  dressed,  a  bright  frosty  sun 
shining  into  the  room,  and  a  tray  with  a  cup  of  tea 
and  some  toast  and  bacon  keeping  hot  by  the  fire. 

" '  Oh,  Mary  ! '  I  cried,  sitting  up  and  rubbing  my 
eyes. 

"  '  Are  you  rested  ?  '  she  said.  '  I  have  been  up 
since  daylight  —  not  so  very  early  that,  at  this  season 
—  Mrs.  Atkins  came  and  brought  me  some  break- 
fast, but  we  hadn't  the  heart  to  waken  you,  you  poor 
child.' 


A   CHRISTMAS    ADVENTURE.  205 

" '  And  oh,  Mary,  what  about  the  noise  ?  Did  she 
hear  it?' 

"  '  She  wasn't  sure.  She  half  fancied  she  did,  and 
then  she  thought  she  might  have  been  imagining  it 
from  the  night  before.  But  get  up,  dear.  It  is 
hopeless  to  try  for  the  early  train ;  we  can't  leave  till 
to-night,  or  to-morrow  morning ;  but  I  am  anxious  to 
get  back  to  East  Hornham  and  see  Mr.  Turner.  And 
before  we  go  I'd  like  to  run  round  the  gardens.' 

'"But,  Mary,'  I  said,  pausing  in  my  occupation  of 
putting  on  my  stockings,  'are  you  still  thinking  of 
taking  this  house  ? ' 

"  '  Still ! '  said  Mary.     '  Why  not  ?  ' 

" '  Because  of  the  noises.  If  we  can't  find  out 
what  it  is,  it  would  be  very  uncomfortable.  And 
with  father  being  so  delicate  too,  and  often  awake  at 
night ! ' 

"  Mary  did  not  reply,  but  my  words  were  not  with- 
out effect.  We  ran  round  the  gardens  as  she  had 
proposed  —  they  were  lovely  even  then  —  took  a 
cordial  farewell  of  Mrs.  Atkins,  and  set  off  on  our 
return  drive  to  East  Hornham.  I  must  not  forget  to 
tell  you  that  we  well  examined  that  part  of  the  gar- 
den into  which  the  tapestry  room  passage  led,  but 
there  were  no  traces  of  footsteps,  the  explanation  of 
which  we  afterwards  found  to  be  that  the  snow  had 
continued  to  fall  till  much  later  in  the  night  than  the 
time  of  our  fright. 

"  Mr.  Turner  was  waiting  for  us  in  considerable 
anxiety.  We  had  done,  he  assured  us,  the  most 
sensible    thing   possible    in    the    circumstances.     He 


206  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

had  not  known  of  our  non-arrival  till  late  in  the 
evening,  and,  but  for  his  confidence  in  Giles,  would 
have  set  off  even  then.  As  it  was,  he  had  sent  a 
messenger  to  Hunter's  Hall,  and  was  himself  starting 
for  the  Grange. 

"  Mary  sent  me  out  of  the  room  while  she  spoke  to 
him,  at  which  I  was  not  over  well  pleased.  She  told 
him  all  about  the  fright  we  had  had,  and  that,  unless 
its  cause  were  explained,  it  would  certainly  leave  an 
uncomfortable  feeling  in  her  mind,  and  that,  consid- 
ering our  father's  invalid  state,  till  she  had  talked 
it  over  with  our  mother  she  could  not  come  to  the 
decision  she  had  hoped. 

" '  It  may  end  in  our  taking  Hunter's  Hall,'  she 
said,  '  though  the  Grange  is  far  more  suitable.' 

"  Mr.  Turner  was  concerned  and  perplexed.  But 
Mary  talked  too  sensibly  to  incline  him  to  make  light 
of  it, 

"•'It  is  very  unfortunate,'  he  said;  'and  I  prom- 
ised an  answer  to  the  other  party  by  post  this  even- 
ing. And  you  say,  Miss  Berkeley,  that  Mrs.  Atkins 
heard  it  too.  You  are  sure,  Miss,  you  were  not 
dreaming  ?  ' 

"  '  Quite  sure.  It  was  my  sister  that  heard  it,  and 
woke  me,'  she  replied;  'and  then  we  both  heard  it.' 

"  Mr.  Turner  walked  off,  metaphorically  speaking, 
scratching  his  head,  as  honest  Giles  had  done  liter- 
ally in  his  perplexity  the  night  before.  He  promised 
to  call  back  in  an  hour  or  two,  when  he  had  been  to 
the  station  and  found  out  about  the  trains  for  us. 

"  We  packed  our  little  bag  and  paid  the   bill,  so 


A   CHRISTMAS    ADVENTURE.  207 

that  we  might  be  quite  ready,  in  case  Mr.  Turner 
found  out  any  earlier  train  by  which  we  might  get 
on,  for  we  had  telegraphed  to  mother  that  we  should 
do  our  best  to  be  back  the  next  day.  I  was  still  so 
sleepy  and  tired  that  Mary  persuaded  me  to  lie  down 
on  the  bed,  in  preparation  for  the  possibility  of  a 
night's  journey.  I  was  nearly  asleep  when  a  tap 
came  to  the  door,  and  a  servant  informed  Mary  that 
a  gentleman  was  waiting  to  speak  to  her. 

" '  Mr.  Turner,'  said  she  carelessly,  as  she  passed 
into  the  sitting-room. 

"But  it  was  not  Mr.  Turner.  In  his  place  she 
found  herself  face  to  face  with  a  very  different  per- 
son —  a  young  man,  of  seven  or  eight  and  twenty, 
perhaps,  tall  and  dark  —  dark-haired  and  dark-eyed 
that  is  to  say  —  grave  and  quiet  in  appearance,  but 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes  that  told  of  no  lack  of 
humour. 

" '  I  must  apologise  for  calling  in  this  way,  Miss 
Berkeley,'  he  said  at  once,  'but  I  could  not  help 
coming  myself  to  tell  how  very  sorry  I  am  about  the 
fright  my  dog  gave  you  last  night  at  the  Grange.  I 
have  just  heard  of  it  from  Mr.  Turner.' 

"'Your  dog?'  repeated  Mary,  raising  her  pretty 
blue  eyes  to  his  face  in  bewilderment. 

" '  Yes,'  he  said,  '  he  ran  off  to  the  Grange  —  his 
old  home,  you  know  —  oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!  —  I 

am  forgetting  to  tell  you  that  I  am  Walter  H , 

—  in  the  night,  and  must  have  tried  to 'find  his  way 
into  my  room  in  the  way  he  used  to  do.  I  always 
left  the  door  unlatched  for  him.' 


208  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

"  Instead  of  replying,  Mary  turned  round  and  flew 
straight  off  into  the  room  where  I  was. 

" '  Oh,  Laura,'  she  exclaimed,  '  it  was  a  dog ;  Mr. 

Walter  H has  just  come  to  tell  us.     Are  you 

not  delighted?  Now  we  can  fix  for  the  Grange  at 
once,  and  it  will  be  all  right.  Come  quick,  and  hear 
about  it.' 

"  I  jumped  up,  and,  without  even  waiting  to  smooth 
my  hair,  hurried  back  into  the  sitting-room  with 
Mary.  Our  visitor,  very  much  amused  at  our  excite- 
ment, explained  the  whole,  and  sent  downstairs  for 
'  Captain,'  a  magnificent  retriever,  who,  on  being  told 
to  beg  our  pardon,  looked  up  with  his  dear  pathetic 
brown  eyes  in  Mary's  face  in  a  way  that  won  her 
heart  at  once.  His  master,  it  appeared,  had  been 
staying  at  East  Hornham  the  last  two  nights  with 
an  old  friend,  the  clergyman  there.  Both  nights,  on 
going  to  bed  late,  he  had  missed  '  Captain,'  whose 
usual  habit  was  to  sleep  on  a  mat  at  his  door.  The 
first  night  he  was  afraid  the  dog  was  lost,  but  to  his 
relief  he  reappeared  again  early  the  next  morning; 
the  second  night,  also,  his  master  happening  to  be 
out  late  at  Mr.  Turner's,  with  whom  he  had  a  good 
deal  of  business  to  settle,  the  dog  had  set  off  again 
on  his  own  account  to  his  former  quarters,  with  prob- 
ably some  misty  idea  in  his  doggy  brain  that  it  was 
the  proper  thing  to  do. 

"  '  But  how  did  you  find  out  where  he  had  been  ? ' 
said  I. 

" '  I  went  out  early  this  morning,  feeling  rather 
anxious  about  "  Captain,"  '  said  our  visitor ;  '  and  I 


A   CHRISTMAS   ADVENTURE.  209 

met  him  coming  along  the  road  leading  from  the 
Grange.  Where  he  had  spent  the  night  after  failing 
to  get  into  his  old  home  I  cannot  tell;  he  must 
have  sheltered  somewhere  to  get  out  of  the  snow 
and  the  cold.  Later  this  morning  I  walked  on  to 
the  Grange,  and,  hearing  from  Ruth  Atkins  of  your 
fright  and  her  own,  I  put  '  two  and  two  together,' 
and  I  think  the  result  quite  explains  the  noises  you 
heard.' 

" '  Quite,'  we  both  said ;  '  and  we  thank  you  so 
much  for  coming  to  tell  us.' 

" '  It  was  certainly  the  very  least  I  could  do,'  he 
said ;  '  and  I  thank  you  very  much  for  forgiving  poor 
old  Captain.' 

"  So  we  left  East  Hornham  with  lightened  hearts, 
and,  as  our  new  friend  was  travelling  some  distance 
in  our  direction,  he  helped  us  to  accomplish  our 
journey  much  better  than  we  could  have  managed 
it  alone.  And  after  all  we  did  get  back  to  our 
parents  on  Christmas  day,  though  not  on  Christmas 
eve." 

Aunty  stopped. 

"  Then  you  did  take  the  Grange,  aunty  ?  "  said  the 
children. 

Aunty  nodded  her  head. 

"  And  you  never  heard  any  more  noises?  " 

"Never,"  said  aunty.  "It  was  the  pleasantest  of 
old  houses ;  and  oh,  we  were  sorry  to  leave  it, 
weren't  we,  mother?" 

"  Why  did  you  leave  it,  grandmother  dear?"  said 
Molly. 


210  "  GRANDMOTHER    DEAR." 

"  When  your  grandfather's  health  obliged  him  to 
spend  the  winters  abroad ;  then  we  came  here,"  said 
grandmother. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Molly,  adding  after  a  little  pause, 
"  I  would  like  to  see  that  house." 

Aunty  smiled.  "  Few  things  are  more  probable 
than  that  you  will  do  so,"  she  said,  "provided  you 
can  make  up  your  mind  to  cross  the  sea  again." 

"Why?  how  do  you  mean,  aunty?"  said  Molly, 
astonished,  and  Ralph  and  Sylvia  listened  with  eager- 
ness to  aunty's  reply. 

"Because,"  said  aunty,  —  then  she  looked  across 
to  grandmother.  "  Won't  you  explain  to  them, 
mother  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Because,  my  darlings,  that  dear  old  house  will 
be  your  home  — your  happy  home,  I  trust,  some  day," 
said  grandmother. 

"  Is  my  father  thinking  of  buying  it  ? "  asked 
Ralph,  pricking  up  his  ears. 

"No,  my  boy,  but  some  day  it  will  be  his.  It  is 
your  uncle's  now,  but  he  is  much  older  than  your 
father,  and  has  no  children,  so  you  see  it  will  come 
to  your  father  some  day  —  sooner .  than  we  have 
thought,  perhaps,  for  your  uncle  is  too  delicate  to 
live  in  England,  and  talks  of  giving  it  up  to  your 
father." 

"  But  still  I  don't  understand,"  said  Ralph,  looking 
puzzled.     "  Did  my  uncle  buy  it  ?  " 

"  No,  no.  Did  you  never  hear  of  old  Alderwood 
Grange  ?  " 

"  Alderwood,"    said   Ralph.     "  Of   course,   but  we 


A    CHRISTMAS    ADVENTURE.  211 

never  speaK  of  it  as  '  The  Grange,'  you  know,  and 
I  have  never  seen  it.  It  has  always  been  let  since  I 
can  remember.  I  never  even  heard  it  described. 
Papa  does  not  seem  to  care  to  speak  of  it." 

"  No,  dear,"  said  aunty.  "  The  happiest  part  of 
his  life  began  there,  and  you  know  how  all  the  light 
seemed  to  go  out  of  his  life  when  your  mother  died. 
It  was  there  he  —  Captain's  master  —  got  to  know 
her,  the  '  Mary  '  of  my  little  adventure.  You  under- 
stand it  all  now?  He  was  a  great  deal  in  the 
neighbourhood  —  at  the  little  town  I  called  East 
Hornham  —  the  summer  we  first  came  to  Alderwood. 
And  there  they  were  married;  and  there,  in  the 
peaceful  old  churchyard,  your  dear  mother  is 
buried." 

The  children  listened  with  sobered  little  faces. 
"  Poor  papa  !  "  they  said. 

"But  some  day,"  said  grandmother,  "some  day  I 
hope,  when  you  three  are  older,  that  Alderwood  will 
again  be  a  happy  home  for  your  father.  It  is  what 
your  mother  would  have  wished,  I  know." 

"  Well  then,  you  and  auntie  must  come  to  live  with 
us  there.  You  must.  Promise  now,  grandmother 
dear,"  said  Molly. 

Grandmother  smiled,  but  shook  her  head  gently. 

"  Grandmother  will  be  a  very  old  woman  by  then, 
my  darling,"  she  said,  "  and  perhaps  —  " 

Molly  pressed  her  little  fat  hand  over  grand- 
mother's mouth. 

"I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,  but  you're  not 
to  say  it,"  she  said.     "  And  every  night,  grandmother 


212  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

dear,  I  ask  in  my  prayers  for  you  to  live  to  be  a 
hundred." 

Grandmother  smiled  again. 

"  Do  you,  my  darling  ?  "  she  said.  "  But  remember, 
whatever  we  ask,  God  knows  best  what  to  answer." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

HOW   THIS   BOOK   CAME   TO   BE   WRITTEN. 

"  Ring  out  ye  merry,  merry  bells, 
Your  loudest,  sweetest  chime; 
Tell  all  the  world,  both  rich  and  poor, 
"Tis  happy  Christmas  time." 

"  Grandmotheb,"  said  Ralph,  at  breakfast  on 
what  Molly  called  "the  morning  of  Christmas  Eve," 
"  I  was  going  to  ask  you,  only  the  story  last  night 
put  it  out  of  my  head,  if  I  might  ask  Prosper  to 
spend  to-morrow  with  us.  His  uncle  and  aunt  are 
going  away  somewhere,  and  he  will  be  quite  alone. 
Besides  he  and  I  have  made  a  plan  about  taking  the 
shawl  to  the  old  woman  quite  early  in  the  morning. 
You  don't  know  hoiv  pleased  he  was  when  I  told  him 
you  had  got  it  for  her,  grandmother  —  just  as  pleased 
as  if  he  had  bought  it  for  her  with  his  own  money." 

"  Then  he  is  a  really  unselfish  boy,"  said  grand- 
mother. "Certainly  you  may  ask  him.  I  had  thought 
of  it  too,  but  somehow  it  went  out  of  my  head.  And, 
as  well  as  the  shawl,  I  shall  have  something  to  send 
to  Prosper's  old  friend.  She  must  have  a  good 
dinner  for  once." 

"  That'll  be  awfully  jolly,"  said  Ralph.  S}dvia  and 
Molly  listened  with  approval,  for  of  course  they  had 

213 


214  "GRANDMOTHER   DEAR." 

heard  all  about  the  mystery  of  Ralph's  wood-carrying 
long  ago. 

"  At  Christmas  time  we're  to  try  to  make  other 
people  happy,"  said  Molly,  meditatively.  "  I  thought 
of  something  that  would  make  a  great  lot  of  people 
happy,  if  you  and  aunty  would  do  it,  grandmother 
dear?" 

"  I  don't  think  you  did  all  the  thinking  about  it, 
Molly,"  said  Sylvia,  with  a  slight  tone  of  reproach. 
"  I  do  think  I  did  some." 

"  Well,  I  daresa}'  you  did.  We  did  it  together. 
It  couldn't  be  for  this  Christmas,  but  for  another." 

"  But  what  is  it  ?  "  asked  grandmother. 

"  It  is  that  you  and  aunty  should  make  a  book  out 
of  the  stories  you've  told  us,  and  then  you  see  lots 
and  lots  of  other  children  would  be  pleased  as  well 
as  us,"  said  Molly.  "  Of  course  you'd  have  to  put 
more  to  it,  to  make  it  enough.  I  don't  mind  if  you 
put  some  in  about  me,  grandmother  dear,  if  you 
would  like  to  very  much." 

"  No,"  said  Sylvia,  "  that  would  be  very  stupid. 
Grandmother  couldn't  make  a  book  about  us.  We're 
not  uncommon  enough.  We  couldn't  be  heroines, 
Molly." 

"  But  children  don't  care  about  heroines,"  said 
Molly.  "  Children  like  to  hear  about  other  children, 
just  really  what  they  do.  Now,  don't  they,  grand- 
mother dear?     And  isn't  my  plan  a  good  one  ?  " 

Will  you  answer  little  Molly's  question,  children 
dear?      For  dear  you  all  are,  whoever  and  wherever 


HOW   THIS   BOOK   CAME   TO   BE    WRITTEN.      215 

you  be.  Boys  and  girls,  big  and  little,  dark  and  fair, 
brown-eyed  and  blue-eyed,  merry  and  quiet  —  all  of 
you,  dear  unknown  friends  whose  faces  I  may  never 
see,  yet  all  of  whom  I  love.  I  shall  be  so  glad  — so 
very  glad,  if  this  little  simple  story-book  of  mine  helps 
to  make  this  Christmas  Day  a  happy  and  merry  one 
for  you  all. 


THE   END. 


;  Well,  Dears,"  she  said,  "and  what  are  tod  playing  at?"  — p.  3. 

—  Frontispiece 


TWO    LITTLE   WAIFS 


BY 


MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

AUTHOR  OF  "CARROTS,"   "CUCKOO  CLOCK,"   "TELL  ME  A   STORY' 


Two  small  figures,  hurrying  along  hand -in-hand,  caught  the 
attention  of  several  people.  —  p.  134. 


ILLUSTRATED   BY   WALTER    CRANE 

KTefo  2fork 
THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 

1898 


All  riijhtH  reserved 


First  Edition  September,  1883.     Reprinted  December,  iE 
August,  1898. 


"  It  would  both  have  excited  your  pity,  and  have  done  your  heart 
good,  to  have  seen  how  these  two  little  ones  were  so  fond  of  each 
other,  and  how  hand-in-hand  they  trotted  along." 

TJie  Renowned  History  of  Goody  Two-Shoes. 


TWO   LITTLE  WAIFS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

PAPA   HAS    SENT    FOR    US. 

"It's  what  comes  in  our  heads  when  we 
Play  at  '  Let's-make-believe,' 
And  when  we  play  at  '  Guessing.'  " 

Charles  Lamb. 

It  was  their  favourite  pla}r.  Gladys  had  invented 
it,  as  she  invented  most  of  their  plays,  and  Roger  was 
even  more  ready  to  play  at  it  than  at  any  other,  ready 
though  he  always  was  to  do  anything  Gladys  liked  or 
wanted.  Many  children  would  have  made  it  different 
—  instead  of  "  going  over  the  sea  to  Papa,"  the}*"  would 
have  played  at  what  they  would  do  when  Papa  should 
come  over  the  sea  to  them.  But  that  was  not  what 
they  had  learnt  to  look  forward  to,  somehow  —  they 
were  like  two  little  swallows,  always  dreaming  of  a 
sunny  fairyland  they  knew  not  where,  only  "  over  the 
sea,"  and  in  these  dreams  and  plays  they  found  the 
brightness  and  happiness  which  they  were  still  too 
young  to  feel  should  have  been  in  their  everyday 
baby  life. 

For  "  Mamma  "  was  a  word  that  had  no  real  mean- 
ing to  them.     They  thought  of  her  as  of  a  far-away 

1 


2  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

beautiful  angel  —  beautiful,  but  a  little  frightening 
too ;  cold  and  white  like  the  marble  angels  in  church, 
whose  wings  looked  so  soft,  till  one  day  Roger  touched 
them,  and  found  them,  to  his  strange  surprise,  hard 
and  icy,  which  made  him  tell  Gladys  that  he  thought 
hens  much  prettier  than  angels.  Gladys  looked  a 
little  shocked  at  this,  and  whispered  to  remind  him 
that  he  should  not  say  that :  had  he  forgotten  that  the 
angels  lived  up  in  heaven,  and  were  always  good,  and 
that  Mamma  was  an  angel  ?  No,  Roger  had  not  for- 
gotten, and  that  was  what  made  him  think  about 
angels ;  but  they  weren't  pretty  and  soft  like  Snow- 
ball, the  little  white  hen,  and  he  was  sure  he  would 
never  like  them  as  much.  Gladys  said  no  more  to 
him,  for  she  knew  by  the  tone  of  his  voice  that  it 
would  not  take  very  much  to  make  him  cry,  and 
when  Roger  got  "  that  way,"  as  she  called  it,  she  used 
to  try  to  make  him  forget  what  had  troubled  him. 

"  Let's  play  at  going  to  Papa,"  she  said ;  "  I've 
thought  of  such  a  good  way  of  making  a  ship  with 
the  chairs,  half  of  them  upside  down  and  half  long- 
ways —  like  that,  see,  Roger  ;  and  with  our  hoop-sticks 
tied  on  to  the  top  of  Miss  Susan's  umbrella  —  I  found 
it  in  the  passage  —  we  can  make  such  a  great  high 
pole  in  the  middle.  What  is  it  they  call  a  pole  in 
the  middle  of  a  ship  ?     I  can't  remember  the  name  ?  " 

Nor  could  Roger ;  but  he  was  greatly  delighted 
Avith  the  new  kind  of  ship,  and  forgot  all  about  the 
disappointment  of  the  angels  in  helping  Gladys  to 
make  it,  and  when  it  was  made,  sailing  away,  away 
to  Papa,  "  over  the  sea,  over  the  sea,"  as  Gladys  sang 


PAPA  HAS    SENT   FOR   US.  6 

in  her  little  soft  thin  voice,  as  she  rocked  Roger 
gently  up  and  down,  making  believe  it  was  the  waves. 

Some  slight  misgiving  as  to  what  Miss  Susan 
would  say  to  the  borrowing  of  her  umbrella  was  the 
only  thing  that  interfered  with  their  enjoyment,  and 
made  them  jump  up  hastily  with  a  "  Oh,  Miss  Susan," 
as  the  beginning  of  an  apology,  ready  on  Glad}rs's  lips 
when  the  door  opened  rather  suddenly. 

But  it  was  not  Miss  Susan  who  came  in.  A  little 
to  their  relief  and  a  good  deal  to  their  surprise  it  was 
Susan's  aunt,  old  Mrs.  Lacy,  who  seldom  —  for  she  was 
lame  and  rheumatic  —  managed  to  get  as  far  as  the 
nursery.  She  wras  kind  and  gentle,  though  rather 
deaf,  so  that  the  children  were  in  no  way  afraid  of 
her. 

"Well,  deal's,"  she  said,  "and  what  are  you  play- 
ing at?" 

"  Over  the  sea,  Mrs.  Lacy,"  said  Gladys.  "  Over 
the  sea,"  repeated  Roger,  who  spoke  very  plainly  for 
his  age.  "  Going  over  the  sea  to  Papa  ;  that's  what 
we're  playing  at,  and  we  like  it  the  best  of  all  our 
games.  This  is  the  ship,  you  see,  and  that's  the  big 
stick  in  the  middle  that  all  ships  have — what  is  it 
they  call  it?     I  can't  remember?  " 

"  The  mast,"  suggested  Mrs.  Lacy. 

"Oil  yes,  the  mast,"  said  Gladys  in  a  satisfied 
tone ;  "  well,  you  see,  we've  made  the  mast  with  our 
hoop-sticks  and  Miss  Susan's  umbrella — you  don't 
think  Miss  Susan  will  mind,  do  you?"  with  an 
anxious  glance  of  her  bright  brown  eyes;  "isn't  it 
high,  the  —  the  mart?" 


4  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

"  Mast,"  corrected  Mrs.  Lacy  ;  "  yes,  it's  taller  than 
you,  little  Gladys,  though  you  are  beginning  to  grow 
very  fast !  What  a  little  body  you  were  when  you 
came  here  first,"  and  the  old  lady  gave  a  sigh,  which 
made  Roger  look  up  at  her. 

"  Has  you  got  a  sore  troat  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  No,  my  dear ;  what  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  'Cos,  when  my  troat  was  sore  I  was  always 
breaving  out  loud  like  that,"  said  Roger  sympathis- 
ingly. 

"  No,  my  throat's  not  sore,  dear,  thank  you,"  said 
the  old  lady.  "  Sometimes  people  '  breathe  '  like 
that  when  they're  feeling  a  little  sad." 

"  And  are  you  feeling  a  little  sad,  poor  Mrs. 
Lacy?"  said  Gladys.  "  It's  not  'cos  Miss  Susan's  go- 
ing to  be  married,  is  it  ?  I  think  we  shall  be  very 
happy  when  Miss  Susan's  married,  only  p'raps  it 
wouldn't  be  very  polite  to  say  to  her,  would  it  ?  " 

"  No,  it  wouldn't  be  kind,  certainly,"  said  the  old 
lady,  with  a  little  glance  of  alarm.  Evidently  Miss 
Susan  kept  her  as  well  as  the  children  in  good  order. 
"  You  must  be  careful  never  to  say  anything  like 
that,  for  you  know  Susan  has  been  very  good  to  you 
and  taken  great  care  of  you." 

"  I  know,"  said  Gladys  ;  "  but  still  I  like  you  best, 
Mrs.  Lacy." 

"  And  you  would  be  sorry  to  leave  me,  just  a  little 
sorry ;  I  should  not  want  you  to  be  very  sorry,"  said 
the  gentle  old  lady. 

Gladys  glanced  up  with  a  curious  expression  in 
her  eyes. 


PAPA  HAS    SENT   FOR    US.  O 

"  Do  you  mean  —  is  it  that  you  are  sad  about  ?  — 
has  it  come  at  last?  Has  Papa  sent  for  us,  Mrs. 
Lacy  ?  Oh  Roger,  listen  !  Of  course  we  should  be 
sorry  to  leave  you  and  —  and  Miss  Susan.  But  is  it 
true,  can  it  be  true  that  Papa  has  sent  for  us  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dears,  it  is  true  ;  though  I  never  thought 
you  would  have  guessed  it  so  quickly,  Gladys.  You 
are  to  go  to  him  in  a  very  few  weeks.  I  will  tell  you 
all  about  it  as  soon  as  it  is  settled.  There  will  be  a 
great  deal  to  do  with  Susan's  marriage,  too,  so  soon, 
and  I  wouldn't  like  you  to  go  away  without  your 
things  being  in  perfect  order." 

"  I  think  they  are  in  very  nice  order  already,"  said 
Gladys.  "  I  don't  think  there'll  be  much  to  do.  I 
can  tell  you  over  all  my  frocks  and  Roger's  coats  if 
you  like,  and  then  you  can  think  what  new  ones  we'll 
need.  Our  stockings  are  getting  rather  bad,  but 
Miss  Susan  thought  they'd  do  till  we  got  our  new 
winter  ones,  and  Roger's  second-best  house  shoes 
are  —  " 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Lacy,  smiling,  though  a 
little  sadly,  at  the  child's  business-like  tone ;  "  I 
must  go  over  them  all  with  Susan.  But  not  to-day. 
I  am  tired  and  rather  upset  by  this  news." 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Lacy,"  said  Gladys  again.  "  But  can't 
you  tell  us  just  a  very  little  ?  What  does  Papa  say  ? 
Where  are  we  to  go  to  ?  Not  all  the  way  to  where 
he  is?" 

"  No,  dear.  He  is  coming  home,  sooner  than  he 
expected,  for  he  has  not  been  well,  and  you  are  to 
meet  him  somewhere — he  has  not  quite  fixed  where 


D  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

—  in  Italy  perhaps,  and  to  stay  there  through  the 
winter.  It  is  a  good  thing,  as  it  had  to  be,  that  he 
can  have  you  before  Susan  leaves  me,  for  I  am  get- 
ting too  old,  dears,  to  take  care  of  you  as  I  should 
like — as  I  took  care  of  him  long  ago." 

For  Mrs.  Lacy  was  a  very,  very  old  friend  of  the 
children's  father.  She  had  taken  care  of  him  as  a 
boy,  and  years  after,  when  his  children  came  to 
be  left  much  as  he  had  been,  without  a  mother,  and 
their  father  obliged  to  be  far  away  from  them,  she 
had,  for  love  of  her  adopted  son,  as  she  sometimes 
called  him,  taken  his  children  and  done  her  best  to 
make  them  happy.  But  she  was  old  and  feeble, 
sometimes  for  days  together  too  ill  to  see  Gladys  and 
Roger,  and  her  niece  Susan,  who  kept  house  for  her, 
though  a  very  active  and  clever  young  lady,  did  not 
like  children.  So,  though  the  children  were  well 
taken  care  of  as  far  as  regarded  their  health,  and 
were  always  neatly  dressed,  and  had  a  nice  nursery 
and  a  pleasant  garden  to  play  in,  they  were,  though 
they  were  not  old  enough  to  understand  it,  rather 
lonely  and  solitary  little  creatures.  Poor  old  Mrs. 
Lacy  saw  that  it  was  so,  but  felt  that  she  could  do 
no  more ;  and  just  when  the  unexpected  letter  from 
their  father  came,  she  was  on  the  point  of  writing  to 
tell  him  that  she  thought,  especially  as  her  niece  was 
going  to  be  married,  some  new  home  must  be  found 
for  his  two  little  waifs,  as  he  sometimes  called  them. 

Before  Mrs.  Lacy  had  time  to  tell  them  any  more 
about  the  great  news  Miss  Susan  came  in.  She 
looked  surprised  to  see  her  aunt  in  the  nursery. 


TAPA   HAS    SENT   FOR    US.  7 

"  You  will  knock  yourself  up  if  you  don't  take 
care,**  she  said  rather  sharply,  though  not  unkindly. 
"  And  my  umbrella  —  my  best  umbrella  !  I  declare 
it's  too  bad —  the  moment  one's  back  is  turned." 

"  It's  the  mast,  Miss  Susan,"  said  Gladys  eagerly. 
"  We  thought  you  wouldn't  mind.  It's  the  mast  of 
the  ship  that's  going  to  take  us  over  the  sea  to  Papa." 

Some  softer  feeling  came  over  Susan  as  she 
glanced  at  Gladys's  flushed,  half-frightened  face. 

"  Poor  little  things  !  "  she  said  to  herself  gently. 
"  Well,  be  sure  to  put  it  back  in  its  place  when  you've 
done  with  it.  And  now,  aunt,  come  down  stairs 
with  me,  I  have  ever  so  many  things  to  say  to  you." 

Mrs.  Lacy  obeyed  meekly. 

••You  haven't  told  them  yet,  have  you,  aunt?" 
said  Susan,  as  soon  as  they  were  alone. 

"  Yes,  I  told  them  a  little,"  said  the  old  lady. 
"  Somehow  I  could  not  help  it.  I  went  upstairs 
and  found  them  playing  at  the  very  thing  —  it  seemed 
to  come  so  naturally.  I  know  you  will  think  it  foolish 
of  me,  Susan,  but  I  can't  help  feeling  their  going, 
even  though  it  is  better  for  them." 

k>  It's  quite  natural  you  should  feel  it,"  said  Susan 
in  a  not  unkindly  tone.  "  But  still  it  is  a  very  good 
thing  it  has  happened  just  now.  For  you  know,  aunt, 
we  have  quite  decided  that  you  must  live  with  us  —  " 

"  You  are  very  good,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Lacy, 
who  was  really  very  dependent  on  her  niece's  care. 

"  And  yet  I  could  not  have  asked  Mr.  Rexford  to 
have  taken  the  children,  who,  after  all,  are  no  rela- 
tion^ you  know." 


8  TWO    LITTLE   WAIFS. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Lacy. 

"  And  then  to  give  them  up  to  their  own  father  is 
quite  different  from  sending  them  away  to  strangers." 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  said  the  old  lady,  more  briskly 
this  time. 

"  On  the  whole,"  Miss  Susan  proceeded  to  sum  up, 
"  it  could  not  have  happened  better,  and  the  sooner 
the  good-byings  and  all  the  bustle  of  the  going  are 
over,  the  better  for  you  and  for  me,  and  for  all  con- 
cerned, indeed.  And  this  leads  me  to  what  I  wanted 
to  tell  you.  Things  happen  so  strangely  sometimes. 
This  very  morning  I  have  heard  of  such  a  capital 
escort  for  them." 

Mrs.  Lacy  looked  up  with  startled  eyes. 

"An  escort,"  she  repeated.  "But  not  yet,  Susan. 
They  are  not  going  yet.  Wilfred  speaks  of  'some 
weeks  hence  '  in  his  letter." 

"  Yes ;  but  his  letter  was  written  three  weeks  ago, 
and,  of  course,  I  am  not  proposing  to  send  them  away 
to-day  or  to-morrow.  The  opportunity  I  have  heard 
of  will  be  about  a  fortnight  hence.  Plenty  of  time 
to  telegraph,  even  to  write,  to  Captain  Bertram  to 
ensure  there  being  no  mistake.  But  anyway  we  need 
not  decide  just  yet.  He  says  he  will  write  again  by 
the  next  mail,  so  we  shall  have  another  letter  by 
Saturday." 

"  And  what  is  the  escort  you  have  heard  of  ? " 
asked  Mrs.  Lacy. 

"  It  is  a  married  niece  of  the  Murrays,  who  is  going 
to  India  in  about  a  fortnight.  They  start  from  here, 
as  they  are  coming  here  on  a*  visit  the  last  thing. 
They  go  straight  to  Marseilles." 


PAPA   HAS    SENT    FOR    US.  9 

"  But  would  they  like  to  be  troubled  with  chil- 
dren?" 

"  They  know  Captain  Bertram,  that  is  how  we 
came  to  speak  of  it.  And  Mrs.  Murray  is  sure  they 
would  be  glad  to  do  anything  to  oblige  him." 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Lacy.  "  It  sounds  very  nice. 
And  it  is  certainly  not  every  day  that  we  should  find 
any  one  going  to  France  from  a  little  place  like  this." 
For  Mrs.  Lacy's  home  was  in  a  rather  remote  and 
out-of-the-way  part  of  the  country.  "  It  would  save 
expense  too,  for,  as  they  have  no  longer  a  regular 
nurse,  I  have  no  one  to  send  even  as  far  as  London 
with  them." 

"  And  young  Mrs. ,  I  forget  her  name  —  her 

maid  would  look  after  them  on  the  journe}''.  I  asked 
about  that,"  said  Susan,  who  was  certainly  not 
thoughtless. 

"  Well,  well,  we  must  just  wait  for  Saturday's 
letter,"  said  Mrs.  Lacy. 

"  And  in  the  meantime  the  less  said  about  it  the 
better,  /think,"  said  Susan. 

"  Perhaps  so ;  I  daresay  you  are  right,"  agreed 
Mrs.  Lacy. 

She  hardly  saw  the  children  again  that  day. 
Susan*,  who  seemed  vO  be  in  an  unusually  gracious 
mood,  took  them  out  herself  in  the  afternoon,  and 
was  very  kind.  But  they  were  so  little  used  to  talk 
to  her,  for  she  had  never  tried  to  gain  their  confidence, 
that  it  did  not  occur  to  either  Gladys  or  Roger  to 
chattel'  about  what  nevertheless  their  little  heads  and 
hearts  were  full  of.     They  had  also,  I  think,  a  vague 


10  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

childish  notion  of  loyalty  to  their  old  friend  in  not 
mentioning  the  subject,  even  though  she  had  not  told 
them  not  to  do  so.  So  they  trotted  along  demurely, 
pleased  at  having  their  best  things  on,  and  proud 
of  the  honour  of  a  walk  with  Miss  Susan,  even  while 
not  a  little  afraid  of  doing  anything  to  displease 
her. 

"  They  are  good  little  things  after  all,"  thought 
Susan,  when  she  had  brought  them  home  without 
any  misfortune  of  any  kind  having  marred  the 
harmony  of  the  afternoon.  And  the  colour  rushed 
into  Gladys's  face  when  Miss  Susan  sent  them  up  to 
the  nursery  with  the  promise  of  strawberry  jam  for 
tea,  as  they  had  been  very  good. 

"  I  don't  mind  so  much  about  the  strawberry  jam," 
Gladys  confided  to  Roger,  "  though  it  is  very  nice. 
But  I  do  like  when  any  one  says  we've  been  very 
good,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Roger;  adding,  however,  with  his  usual 
honesty :  "  I  like  bofe,  being  praised  and  jam,  you 
know,  Gladdie." 

"  'Cos,"  Gladys  continued,  "if  we  are  good,  you 
see,  Roger,  and  I  really  think  we  must  be  so  if  she 
says  so,  it  will  be  very  nice  for  Papa,  won't  it?  It 
matters  more  now,  you  see,  what  we  are,  'cos  of  go- 
ing to  him.  When  people  have  people  of  their  own 
they  should  be  gooder  even  than  when  they  haven't 
any  one  that  cares  much." 

"Should  they?"  said  Roger,  a  little  bewildered. 
"But  Mrs.  Lacy  cares?"  he  added.  Roger  was 
great  at  second  thoughts. 


PAPA  HAS    SENT   FOR    US.  11 

"  Ye — s,"  said  Gladys,  "  she  cares,  but  not  dread- 
fully much.  She's  getting  old,  you  know.  And 
sometimes  —  don't  say  so  to  anybody,  Roger  —  some- 
times I  think  p'raps  she'll  soon  have  to  be  going  to 
heaven.  I  think  she  thinks  so.  That's  another 
reason,  you  see,"  reverting  to  the  central  idea  round 
which  her  busy  brain  had  done  nothing  but  revolve 
all  day,  "  why  it's  such  a  good  thing  Papa's  sent  for 
us  now." 

"  I  don't  like  about  people  going  to  heaven,"  said 
Roger,  with  a  little  shiver.  "  Why  can't  God  let 
them  stay  here,  or  go  over  the  sea  to  where  it's  so 
pretty,     i"  don't  want  ever  to  go  to  heaven." 

"  Oh,  Roger ! "  said  Gladys,  shocked.  "  Papa 
wouldn't  like  you  to  say  that." 

"  Wouldn't  he  ?  "  said  Roger  ;  "  then  I  won't.  It's 
because  of  the  angels,  you  know,  Gladdie.  Oh,  do 
you  think,"  he  went  on,  his  ideas  following  the  next 
link  in  the  chain,  "  do  you  think  we  can  take  Snow- 
ball with  us  when  we  go  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Gladys  ;  and  just  then  Mrs. 
Lacy's  housemaid,  who  had  taken  care  of  them  since 
their  nurse  had  had  to  leave  them  some  months 
before,  happening  to  bring  in  their  tea,  the  little  girl 
turned  to  her  with  some  vague  idea  of  taking  her 
into  their  confidence.  To  have  no  one  but  Roo-er  to 
talk  to  about  so  absorbing  a  matter  was  almost  too 
much.  But  Ellen  was  either  quite  ignorant  of  the 
great  news,  or  too  discreet  to  allow  that  she  had 
heard  it.  In  answer  to  Gladys's  "feeler"  as  to  how 
hens  travelled,  and  if  one  might  take  them  in    the 


12  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

carriage  with  one,  she  replied  matter-of-factly  that 
she  believed  there  were  places  on  purpose  for  all 
sorts  of  live  things  on  the  railway,  but  that  Miss 
Gladys  had  better  ask  Miss  Susan,  who  had  travelled 
a  great  deal  more  than  she,  Ellen. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Gladys  disappointedly,  "  perhaps 
she  has ;  but  most  likely  not  with  hens.  But  have 
you  stayed  at  home  all  your  life,  Ellen  ?  Have  you 
never  left  your  father  and  mother  till  you  came 
here  ?  " 

Whereupon  Ellen,  who  was  a  kindly  good  girl, 
only  a  little  too  much  in  awe  of  Miss  Susan  to  yield 
to  her  natural  love  of  children,  feeling  herself  on  safe 
ground,  launched  out  into  a  somewhat  rose-coloured 
description  of  her  home  and  belongings,  and  of  her 
visits  as  a  child  to  the  neighbouring  market-town, 
which  much  amused  and  interested  her  little  hearers, 
besides  serving  for  the  time  to  distract  their  thoughts 
from  the  one  idea,  which  was,  I  daresay,  a  good  thing. 
For  in  this  life  it  is  not  well  to  think  too  much  or 
feel  too  sure  of  any  hoped-for  happiness.  The  doing 
so  of  itself  leads  to  disappointment,  for  'Ave  uncon- 
sciously paint  our  pictures  with  colours  impossibly 
bright,  so  that  the  real  cannot  but  fall  short  of  the 
imaginary. 

But  baby  Gladys  —  poor  little  girl!  —  at  seven 
it  is  early  days  to  learn  these  useful  but  hard 
lessons. 

She  and  Roger  made  up  for  their  silence  when 
they  went  to  bed,  and  you,  children,  can  better 
imagine   than  I  can  tell  the  whispered  chatter  that 


PAPA  HAS    SENT   FOR    US.  13 

went  on  between  the  two  little  cots  that  stood  close 
together  side  by  side.  And  still  more  the  lovely 
confusion  of  happy  dreams  that  flitted  that  night 
through  the  two  curly  heads  on  the  two  little 
pillows. 


CHAPTER   II. 

POOR   MRS.    LACY. 

"For  the  last  time  —  words  of  too  sad  a  tone." 

An.  Old  Story  and  other  Poems. 

Saturday  brought  the  expected  letter,  which  both 
Mrs.  Lacy  and  Susan  anxiously  expected,  though 
with  different  feelings.  Susan  hoped  that  nothing 
would  interfere  with  the  plan  she  had  made  for  the 
children's  leaving ;  Mrs.  Lacy,  even  though  she 
owned  that  it  seemed  a  good  plan,  could  not  help 
wishing  that  something  would  happen  to  defer  the 
parting  with  the  two  little  creatures  whom  she  had 
learnt  to  love  as  much  as  if  they  had  been  her  own 
grandchildren. 

But  the  letter  was  all  in  favour  of  Susan's  ideas. 
Captain  Bertram  wrote  much  more  decidedly  than  he 
had  done  before.  He  named  the  date  at  which  he 
was  leaving,  a  very  few  days  after  his  letter,  the  date 
at  which  he  expected  to  be  at  Marseilles,  and  went 
on  to  say  that  if  Mrs.  Lacy  could  possibly  arrange  to 
have  the  children  taken  over  to  Paris  within  a  certain 
time,  he  would  undertake  to  meet  them  there  at  any 
hour  of  any  day  of  the  week  she  named.  The  sooner 
the  better  for  him,  he  said,  as  he  would  be  anxious  to 
get  back  to  the  south  and  settle  himself  there  for  the 

14 


POOR    MRS.    LACY.  15 

winter,  the  doctor  having  warned  him  to  run  no  risk 
in  exposing  himself  to  cold,  though  with  care  he  quite 
hoped  to  be  all  right  again  by  the  spring.  As  to  a 
maid  for  the  children  —  Mrs.  Lacy  having  told  him 
that  they  had  had  no  regular  nurse  for  some  time  — 
lie  thought  it  would  be  a  good  plan  to  have  a  French 
one,  and  as  he  had  friends  in  Paris  who  understood 
very  well  about  such  things  he  would  look  out  for 
one  immediately  he  got  there,  if  Mrs.  Lacj''  could  find 
one  to  take  them  over  and  stay  a  few  days,  or  if  she, 
perhaps,  could  spare  one  of  her  servants  for  the  time. 
And  he  begged  her,  when  she  had  made  her  plans,  to 
telegraph,  or  write  if  there  were  time,  to  him  at  a 
certain  hotel  at  Marseilles,  "to  wait  his  arrival." 

Susan's  face  had  brightened  considerably  while 
reading  the  letter ;  for  Mrs.  Lacy,  after  trying  to  do 
so,  had  given  it  up,  and  begged  her  niece  to  read  it 
aloud. 

"  My  sight  is  very  bad  this  morning,"  she  said, 
and  her  voice  trembled  as  she  spoke,  "  and  Wilfred's 
writing  was  never  very  clear." 

Susan  looked  at  her  rather  anxiously  —  for  some 
time  past  it  had  seemed  to  her  that  her  aunt  was 
much  less  well  than  usual  —  but  she  took  the  letter 
and  read  it  aloud  in  her  firm  distinct  voice,  only 
stopping  now  and  then  to  exclaim:  "Could  anything 
have  happened  better?  It  is  really  most  fortunate." 
Only  at  the  part  where  Captain  Bertram  spoke  of 
engaging  a  maid  for  the  journey,  or  lending  one  of 
theirs,  her  face  darkened  a  little.  "Quite  unneces- 
sary—  foolish  expense.     Hope  aunt  won't  speak  of  it 


16  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

to  Ellen,"  she  said  to  herself  in  too  low  a  voice  for 
Mrs.  Lacy  to  hear. 

"  Well,  aunt  ? "  she  said  aloud,  when  she  had 
finished  the  letter,  but  rather  to  her  surprise  Mrs. 
Lacy  did  not  at  once  reply.  She  was  lying  on  her 
couch,  and  her  soft  old  face  looked  very  white 
against  the  cushions.  She  had  closed  her  eyes,  but 
her  lips  seemed  to  be  gently  moving.  What  were 
the  unheard  words  they  were  saying?  A  prayer 
perhaps  for  the  two  little  fledglings  about  to  be  taken 
from  her  wing  for  ever.     She  knew  it  was  for  ever. 

"  I  shall  never  see  them  again,"  she  said,  loud 
enough  for  Susan  to  hear,  but  Susan  thought  it  better 
not  to  hear. 

"  Well,  aunt,"  she  repeated,  rather  impatiently, 
but  the  impatience  was  partly  caused  by  real  anxiety ; 
"  won't  you  say  what  you  think  of  it?  could  anything 
have  happened  better  than  the  Murrays'  escort? 
Just  the  right  time  and  all." 

"  Yes,  my  dear.  It  seems  to  have  happened  won- 
derfully well.  I  am  sure  you  will  arrange  it  all 
perfectly.  Can  you  write  to  Wilfred  at  once?  And 
perhaps  you  had  better  see  Mrs.  Murray  again.  I 
don't  feel  able  to  do  anything,  but  I  trust  it  all  to 
you,  Susan.     You  are  so  practical  and  sensible." 

"Certainly,"  replied  Susan,  agreeably  surprised  to 
find  her  aunt  of  the  same  opinion  as  herself;  "I  will 
arrange  it  all.  Don't  trouble  about  it  in  the  least. 
I  will  see  the  Murrays  again  this  afternoon  or  to- 
morrow. But  in  the  meantime  I  think  it  is  better 
to  say  nothing  more  to  the  children." 


POOR   MRS.    LACY.  17 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  Mrs.  Lacy.  Something  in  her 
voice  made  Susan  look  round.  She  was  leaving  the 
room  at  the  moment.  "Aunt,  what  is  the  matter?" 
she  said. 

Mrs.  Lacy  tried  to  smile,  but  there  were  tears  in 
her  eyes. 

"  It  is  nothing,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "  I  am  a  fool- 
ish old  woman,  I  know.  I  was  only  thinking"  —  and 
here  her  voice  broke  again  —  "  It  would  have  been  a 
great  pleasure  to  me,"  she  went  on,  "  if  he  could  have 
managed  it.  If  Wilfred  could  have  come  all  the  way 
himself,  and  I  could  have  given  the  children  up  into 
his  own  hands.  It  would  not  have  seemed  quite  so 
—  so  sad  a  parting,  and  I  should  have  liked  to  see 
him  again." 

"  But  you  will  see  him  again,  dear  aunt,"  said 
Susan ;  "in  the  spring  he  is  sure  to  come  to  England, 
to  settle  probably,  perhaps  not  far  from  us.  He  has 
spoken  of  it  in  his  letters." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Lacy,  "  but  —  " 

"But  what?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  foolish ;  but  you  know,  my 
dear,  by  the  spring  I  may  not  be  here." 

"Oh,  aunt!"  said  Susan  reproachfully. 

"  It  is  true,  my  dear ;  but  do  not  think  any  more  of 
what  I  said." 

But  Susan,  who  was  well-principled,  though  not  of 
a  very  tender  or  sympathising  nature,  turned  again, 
still  with  her  hand  on  the  door-handle. 

"Aunt,"  she  said,  "you  have  a  right  to  be  con- 
sulted—  even   to    be    fanciful   if   you  choose.     You 


18  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

have  been  very  good  to  me,  very  good  to  Gladys  and 
Roger,  and  I  have  no  doubt  you  were  very  good  to 
their  father  loner  ag-o.  If  it  would  be  a  comfort  to 
you,  let  me  do  it — let  me  write  to  Wilfred  Bertram 
and  ask  him  to  come  here,  as  you  say,  to  fetch  the 
children  himself." 

Mrs.  Lacy  reflected  a  moment.  Then,  as  had  been 
her  habit  all  her  life,  she  decided  on  self-denial. 

"No,  my  dear  Susan,"  she  said  firmly.  "Thank 
you  for  proposing  it,  but  it  is  better  not.  Wilfred 
has  not  thought  of  it,  or  perhaps  he  has  thought  of  it 
and  decided  against  it.  It  would  be  additional  ex- 
pense for  him,  and  he  has  to  think  of  that  —  then 
it  would  give  you  much  more  to  do,  and  you  have 
enough." 

"  I  don't  mind  about  that,"  said  Susan. 

"And  then,  too,"  went  on  Mrs.  Lacy,  "there  is  his 
health.  Evidently  it  will  be  better  for  him  not  to 
come  so  far  north  so  late  in  the  year." 

"  Yes,"  said  Susan,  "  that  is  true." 

"  So  think  no  more  about  it,  my  dear,  and  thank 
you  for  your  patience  with  a  silly  old  woman." 

Susan  stooped  and  kissed  her  aunt,  which  from 
her  meant  a  good  deal.  Then,  her  conscience  quite 
at  rest,  she  got  ready  to  go  to  see  Mrs.  Murray  at 
once. 

"There  is  no  use  losing  the  chance  through  any 
foolish  delay,"  she  said  to  herself. 

Two  days  later  she  was  able  to  tell  her  aunt  that 
all  was  settled.  Mrs.  Murray  had  written  to  her 
niece,  Mrs.  Marton,  and  had  already  got  her  answer. 


POOR   MRS.    LACY.  19 

She  and  her  husband  would  gladly  take  ohargs  of  the 
children  as  far  as  Paris,  and  her  maid,  a  very  nice 
French  girl,  who  adored  little  people,  would  look 
after  them  in  every  way  —  not  the  slightest  need  to 
engage  a  nurse  for  them  for  the  journey,  as  they 
would  be  met  by  their  father'  on  their  arrival.  The 
Martons  were  to  spend  two  days,  the  last  two  days 
of  their  stay  in  England,  with  Mrs.  Murray,  and 
meant  to  leave  on  the  Thursday  of  the  week  during 
which  Captain  Bertram  had  said  he  could  meet  the 
children  at  any  day  and  any  hour.  Everything 
seemed  to  suit  capitally. 

"They  will  cross  on  Friday,"  said  Susan;  "that  is 
the  Indian  mail  day,  of  course.  And  it  is  better  than 
earlier  in  the  week,  as  it  gives  Captain  Bertram  two 
or  three  days'  grace  in  case  of  any  possible  delay." 

"  And  will  you  write,  or  telegraph  —  which  is  it  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Lacy  timidly,  for  these  sudden  arrange- 
ments had  confused  her  —  "  at  once,  then  ?  " 

"  Telegraph,  aunt?    No,  of  course  not,"  said  Susan 

a  little  sharply,  "  he  will  have  left pore  several 

days  ago,  you  know,  and  there  is  no  use  telegraphing 
to  Marseilles.  I  will  write  to-morrow  —  there  is  plenty 
of  time  —  a  letter  to  wait  his  arrival,  as  he  himself 
proposed.  Then  when  he  arrives  he  will  telegraph 
to  us  to  say  he  has  got  the  letter,  and  that  it  is  all 
right.     You  quite  understand,  aunt?" 

"  Oh  yes,  quite.  \  am  very  stupid,  I  know,  my 
dear,"  said  the  old  lady  meekly. 

A  few  days  passed.  Gladys  had  got  accustomed 
by  this  time  to  the  idea  of  leaving,  and  no  longer  felt 


20 


TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 


bewildered  and  almost  oppressed  by  the  rush  of  ques- 
tions and  wonderings  in  her  mind.  But  her  busy 
little  brain  nevertheless  was  constantly  at  work. 
She  had  talked  it  all  over  with  Rogfer  so  often  that 
he,  poor  little  boy,  no  longer  knew  what  he  thought 
or  did  not  think  about  it.  He  had  vague  visions  of 
a  ship  about  the  size  of  Mrs.  Lacy's  drawing-room, 
with  a  person  whom  he  fancied  his  father  —  a  tall 
man  with  very  black  whiskers,  something  like  Mrs. 
Murray's  butler,  whom  Miss  Susan  had  one  day 
spoken  of  as  quite  "soldier-like"  —  and  Roger's  Papa 
was  of  course  a  soldier  —  standing  in  the  middle  to 
hold  the  mast  steady,  and  Gladys  and  he  with  new 
ulsters  on  —  Gladys  had  talked  a  great  deal  about 
new  ulsters  for  the  journey  —  waving  flags  at  each 
side.  Flags  were  hopelessly  confused  with  ships  in 
Roger's  mind;  he  thought  they  had  something  to  do 
with  making  boats  go  quicker.  But  he  did  not  quite 
like  to  say  so  to  Gladys,  as  she  sometimes  told  him 
he  was  really  too  silly  for  a  big  boy  of  nearty  five. 

So  the  two  had  become  rather  silent  on  the  sub- 
ject. Roger  had  almost  left  off  thinking  about  it. 
His  little  everyday  life  of  getting  up  and  going  to 
bed,  saying  his  prayers  and  learning  his  small  lessons 
for  the  daily  governess  who  came  for  an  hour  every 
morning,  eating  his  breakfast  and  dinner  and  tea,  and 
playing  with  his  toy-horses,  was  enough  for  him. 
He  could  not  for  long  together  have  kept  his  thoughts 
on  the  strain  of  far-away  and  unfamiliar  things,  and 
so  long  as  he  knew  that  he  had  Gladys  at  hand,  and 
that  nobody  (which  meant  Miss  Susan  in  particular) 


POOR    MRS.    LACY.  21 

was  vexed  with  him,  he  asked  no  more  of  fate  !  And 
when  Gladys  saw  that  he  was  much  more  interested 
in  trying  to  catch  sight  of  an  imaginary  little  mouse 
which  was  supposed  to  have  been  nibbling  at  the  tail 
of  his  favourite  horse  in  the  toy-cupboard,  than  in 
listening  to  her  wonderings  whether  Papa  had  written 
again,  and  when  Miss  Susan  was  going  to  see  about 
their  new  ulsters,  she  gave  up  talking  to  him  in 
despair. 

If  she  could  have  given  up  thinking  so  much  about 
what  was  to  come,  it  would  have  been  better,  I  dare- 
say. But  still  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  she 
found  it  difficult  to  give  her  mind  to  anything  else. 
The  governess  could  not  make  out  why  Gladys  had 
become  so  absent  and  inattentive  all  of  a  sudden,  for 
though  the  little  girl's  head  was  so  full  of  the  absorb- 
ing thought,  she  never  dreamt  of  speaking  of  it  to 
any  one  but  Roger.  Mrs.  Lacy  had  not  told  her  she 
must  not  do  so,  but  somehow  Gladys,  with  a  child's 
quick  delicate  instinct  of  honour,  often  so  little 
understood,  had  taken  for  granted  that  she  was  not 
to  do  so. 

"  Everything  comes  to  him  that  has  patience  to 
wait,"  says  the  Eastern  proverb,  and  in  her  own  way 
Gladys  had  been  patient,  when  one  morning,  about 
a  week  after  the  day  on  which  Susan  had  told  her 
aunt  that  everything  was  settled,  Miss  Fern,  the 
daily  governess,  at  the  close  of  lessons,  told  her  to  go 
down  to  the  drawing-room,  as  Mrs.  Lacy  wanted  her. 

"  And  Roger  too?"  asked  Gladys,  her  heart  beat- 
ing fast,  though  she  spoke  quietly. 


22  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Miss  Fern,  as  she  tied 
her  bonne t-strins-s. 

The  children  had  noticed  that  she  had  come  into 
the  schoolroom  a  little  later  than  usual  that  morning, 
and  that  her  eyes  were  red.  But  in  answer  to 
Roger's  tender  though  very  frank  inquiries,  she  had 
murmured  something  about  a  cold. 

"  That  was  a  story,  then,  what  she  said  about  her 
eyes,"  thought  sharp-witted  Gladys.  "  She's  been 
crying  ;  I'm  sure  she  has."  But  then  a  feeling  of 
pity  came  into  her  mind.  "  Poor  Miss  Fern  ;  I  sup- 
pose she's  sorry  to  go  away,  and  I  daresay  Mrs.  Lacy 
said  she  wasn't  to  say  anything  about  it  to  us."  So 
she  kissed  Miss  Fern  very  nicely,  and  stopped  the  rest 
of  the  remarks  which  she  saw  Roger  was  preparing. 

"  Go  and  wash  your  hands  quick,  Roger,"  she  said, 
"  for  we  must  go  downstairs.  Mine  are  quite  clean, 
but  your  middle  fingers  are  all  over  ink." 

"  Washing  doesn't  take  it  away,"  said  Roger  re- 
luctantly. There  were  not  many  excuses  he  would 
have  hesitated  to  use  to  avoid  washing  his  hands  ! 

"  Never  mind.  It  makes  them  clean  anyway," 
said  Gladys  decidedly,  and  five  minutes  later  two 
very  spruce  little  pinafored  figures  stood  tapping  at 
the  drawing-room  door. 

"  Come  in,  dears,"  said  Mrs.  Lacy's  faint  gentle 
voice.  She  was  lying  on  her  sofa,  and  the  children 
went  up  and  kissed  her. 

"You  has  got  a  cold  too  —  like  Miss  Fern,"  said 
Roger,  whose  grammar  was  sometimes  at  fault, 
though  he  pronounced  his  words  so  clearly. 


POOR   MRS.    LACY.  23 

"Roger"  whispered  Gladys,  tugging  at  her  little 
brother  under  his  holland  blouse.  But  Mrs.  Lacy 
caught  the  word. 

"Never  mind,  dear,"  she  said,  with  a  little  smile, 
which  showed  that  she  saw  that  Gladys  understood. 
"  Let  him  say  whatever  comes  into  his  head,  dear 
little  man." 

Something  in  the  words,  simple  as  they  were,  or 
more  perhaps  in  the  tone,  made  little  Gladys  sud- 
denly turn  away.  A  lump  came  into  her  throat,  and 
she  felt  as  if  she  were  going  to  cry. 

"  I  wonder  why  I  feel  so  strange,"  she  thought, 
"•just  when  we're  going  to  hear  about  going  to  Papa? 
I  think  it  is  that  Mrs.  Lacy's  eyes  look  so  sad,  'cos 
she's  been  crying.  It's  much  worse  than  Miss  Fern's. 
I  don't  care  so  much  for  her  as  for  Mrs.  Lacy,"  and 
all  these  feelings  surging  up  in  her  heart  made  her 
not  hear  when  their  old  friend  began  to  speak.  She 
had  already  said  some  words  when  Gladys's  thoughts 
wandered  back  again. 

"  It  came  this  morning,"  the  old  lady  was  saying. 
"  See,  dears,  can  you  read  what  your  Papa  says  ?  " 
And  she  held  out  a  pinky-coloured  little  sheet  of 
paper,  not  at  all  like  a  letter.  Gladys  knew  what  it 
was,  but  Roger  did  not :  he  had  never  seen  a  tele- 
gram before. 

"  Is  that  Papa's  writing  ? "  he  said.  "  It's  very 
messy-looking.      /  couldn't  read  it,  I  don't  think." 

"  But  I  can,"  said  Gladys,  spelling  out  the  words. 
"'Ar  —  arrived  safe.  Will  meet  children  as  you 
prop  —  '      What  is  the  last  word,  please,  Mrs.  Lacy?" 


24  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

"  Propose,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  as  you  propose." 
And  then  she  went  on  to  explain  that  this  telegram 
was  in  answer  to  a  letter  from  Miss  Susan  to  their 
father,  telling  him  all  she  had  settled  about  the  jour- 
ney. "  This  telegram  is  from  Marseilles,"  she  said ; 
"  that  is  the  town  by  the  sea  in  France,  where  your 
dear  Papa  has  arrived.  It  is  quite  in  the  south,  but 
he  will  come  up  by  the  railway  to  meet  you  at  Paris, 
where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Marton  —  Mrs.  Marton  is  Mrs. 
Murray's  niece,  Gladys  —  will  take  you  to." 

It  was  a  little  confusing  to  understand,  but  Mrs. 
Lacy  went  over  it  all  again  most  patiently,  for  she 
felt  it  right  that  the  children,  Gladys  especially, 
should  understand  all  the  plans  before  starting  away 
with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Marton,  who,  however  kind,  were 
still  quite  strangers  to  them. 

Gladys  listened  attentively. 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "I  understand  now.  But  how 
will  Papa  know  us,  Mrs.  Lacy?  We  have  grown  so, 
and  —  "  she  went  on,  rather  reluctantly,  "  I  am  not 
quite  sure  that  I  should  know  him,  not  just  at  the 
very  first  minute." 

Mrs.  Lacy  smiled. 

"No,  dear,  of  course  you  could  not,  after  more 
than  four  years  !     But  Mr.  Marton  knows  your  Papa." 

Gladys's  face  cleared. 

"  Oh,  that  is  all  right,"  she  said.  "  That  is  a  very 
good  thing.  But  "  —  and  Gladys  looked  round  hesi- 
tatingly — ■ "  isn't  anybody  else  going  with  us  ?  I 
wish  —  I  wish  nurse  wasn't  married  ;  don't  you,  Mrs. 
Lacy?" 


POOR    MRS.    LACY.  25 

The  sort  of  appeal  in  the  child's  voice  went  to  the 
old  lady's  heart. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  said.  "  Bnt  Susan  thinks  it  will 
be  quite  nice  for  you  with  Leonie,  young  Mrs.  Mar- 
ton's  maid,  for  your  Papa  will  have  a  new  nurse  all 
ready.  She  wrote  to  tell  him  that  we  would  not  send 
any  nurse  with  yon." 

Gladys  gave  a  little  sigh.  It  took  some  of  the 
bloom  off  the  delight  of  "  going  to  Papa  "  to  have  to 
begin  the  journey  alone  among  strangers,  and  she  saw 
that  Mrs.  Lacy  sympathised  with  her. 

"  It  will  save  a  good  deal  of  expense  too,"  the  old 
lady  added,  more  as  if  thinking  aloud,  and  half  for- 
getting to  whom  she  was  speaking. 

"Will  it?"  said  Gladys  quickly.  "Oh,  then,  I 
won't  mind.  We  won't  mind,  will  we,  Roger?"  she 
repeated,  turning  to  her  little  brother. 

"  Xo,  we  won't,"  answered  Roger  solemnly,  though 
without  a  very  clear  idea  of  what  he  was  talking 
about,  for  he  was  quite  bewildered  by  all  he  had 
heard,  and  knew  and  understood  nothing  but  that  he 
and  Gladys  were  going  somewhere  with  somebody  to 
see  Papa. 

"  That's  right,"  said  Mrs.  Lacy  cheerfully.  "  You 
are  a  sensible  little  body,  my  Gladys." 

WWI  know  Papa  isn't  very  rich,"  said  Gladys,  encour- 
aged by  this  approval,  "  and  he'll  have  a  great  lot 
more  to  pay  now  that  Roger  and  I  are  going  to  be 
with  him,  won't  he  ?  " 

"  You  have  such  very  big  appetites,  do  you  think?" 

"  I   don't   know,"    said  Gladys.      "  But  there  are 


26  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

such  lots  of  things  to  buy,  aren't  there?  All  our 
frocks  and  hats  and  boots.  But  oh  !  "  she  suddenly 
broke  off,  "  won't  we  have  to  be  getting  our  things 
ready?  and  do  you  think  we  should  have  new 
ulsters  ?  " 

"  They  are  ordered,"  said  Mrs.  Lacy.  "  Indeed, 
everything  you  will  need  is  ordered.  Susan  has 
been  very  busy,  but  everything  will  be  ready." 

"  When  are  we  to  go  ? "  asked  Gladys,  suddenly 
remembering  this  important  question. 

The  sad  look  came  into  Mrs.  Lacy's  eyes  again, 
and  her  voice  trembled  as  she  replied:  "Next  Thurs- 
day, my  darling." 

"  Next  Thursday,"  repeated  Gladys ;  and  then 
catching  sight  of  the  tears  which  were  slowly  welling 
up  into  Mrs.  Lacy's  kind  eyes  —  it  is  so  sad  to  see 
an  aged  person  cry  !  —  she  suddenly  threw  her  arms 
around  her  old  friend's  neck,  and,  bursting  out  sob- 
bing, exclaimed  again  :  "  Next  Thursday.  Oh,  dear 
Mrs.  Lacy,  next  Thursday  !  " 

And  Roger  stood  by,  fumbling  to  get  out  his 
pocket-handkerchief,  not  quite  sure  if  he  should  also 
cry  or  not.  It  seemed  to  him  strange  that  Gladys 
should  cry  just  when  what  she  had  wanted  so  much 
had  come  —  just  when  it  was  all  settled  about  going 
to  Papa! 


CHAPTER  III. 

A   PRETTY   KETTLE   OF   FISH. 

"  The  cab-wheels  made  a  dreary  thunder 
In  their  half-awakened  ears  ; 
And  then  they  felt  a  dreamy  wonder 
Amid  their  dream-like  fears." 

Lavender  Lady. 

Gladys  said  something  of  the  same  kind  to  her- 
self when,  looking  round  her  in  the  railway  carriage 
on  that  same  Thursday  morning,  she  realised  that  the 
long,  long  looked-forward-to  day  had  come.  She  and 
Roger  had  actually  started  on  their  journey  to  Papa  ! 
Yet  her  eyes  were  red  and  her  face  was  pale.  Little 
Roger,  too,  looked  subdued  and  sober.  It  had  never 
been  so  in  their  plays ;  in  their  pretence  goings  to 
Papa  they  were  always  full  of  fun  and  high  spirits. 
It  was  always  a  beautiful  sunny  day  to  begin  with, 
and  to-day,  the  real  day,  was  sadly  dull  and  dreary,' 
and  cold  too ;  the  children,  even  though  the  new 
ulsters  were  in  all  their  glory,  shivered  a  little  and 
drew  closer  together.  The  rain  was  falling  so  fast 
that  there  was  no  use  trying  to  look  out  of  the  win- 
dow, when  fields  and  trees  and  farmhouses  all  seem 
to  fly  past  in  a  misty  confusion.  Mr.  Marton  was 
deep. in  his  Times;  Mrs.  Marton,  after  settling  the 
children  in  the  most  comfortable  places  and  doing  all 

27 


28  TWO    LITTLE   WAIFS. 

she  could  think  of,  had  drawn  a  book  out  of  her 
travelling-bag  and  was  also  busy  reading.  Roger, 
after  a  while,  grew  sleepy,  and  nodded  his  head,  and 
then  Mrs.  Marton  made  a  pillow  for  him  on  the  arm 
of  the  seat,  and  covered  him  up  with  her  rug.  But 
Gladys,  who  was  not  at  all  sleepy,  sat  staring  before 
her  with  wide  open  eyes,  and  thinking  it  was  all  very 
strange,  and,  above  all,  not  the  very  least  bit  like 
what  she  had  thought  it  would  be.  The  tears  came 
back  into  her  eyes  again  when  she  thought  of  the 
parting  with  Mrs.  Lacy.  She  and  Roger  had  hardly 
seen  their  kind  old  friend  the  last  few  days,  for  she 
was  ill,  much  more  ill  than  usual,  and  Susan  had 
looked  grave  and  troubled.  But  the  evening  before, 
she  had  sent  for  them  to  say  good-bye,  and  this  was 
the  recollection  that  made  the  tears  rush  back  to  the 
little  girl's  eyes.  Dear  Mrs.  Lacy,  how  very  white 
and  ill  she  looked,  propped  up  by  pillows  on  the  old- 
fashioned  sofa  in  her  room  —  every  article  in  which 
was  old-fashioned  too,  and  could  have  told  many  a 
long-ago  tender  little  story  of  the  days  when  their 
owner  was  a  merry  blooming  girl ;  or,  farther  back 
still,  a  tiny  child  like  Gladys  herself  !  For  much  of 
Mrs.  Lacy's  life  had  been  spent  in  the  same  house  and 
among  the  same  things.  She  had  gone  from  there 
when  she  was  married,  and  she  had  come  back  there 
a  widow  and  childless,  and  there  she  had  brought  up 
these  children's  father,  Wilfred,  as  she  often  called 
him  even  in  speaking  to  them,  the  son  of  her  dearest 
friend.  All  this  Gladys  knew,  for  sometimes  when, 
they  were  alone  together,  Mrs.  Lacy  would  tell  her 


A   PRETTY   KETTLE   OF   FISH.  29 

little  stories  of  the  past,  which  left  their  memory 
with  the  child,  even  though  at  the  time  hardly 
understood ;  and  now  that  she  and  Roger  were  quite 
gone  from  the  old  house  and  the  old  life,  the  thought 
of  them  hung  about  Gladys  with  a  strange  solemn 
kind  of  mystery. 

"  I  never  thought  about  leaving  Mrs.  Lacy  when 
we  used  to  play  at  going,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  I 
never  even  thought  of  leaving  the  house  and  our  own 
little  beds  and  everything,  and  even  Miss  Susan. 
And  Ellen  was  very  kind.  I  wish  she  could  have 
come  with  us,  just  till  we  get  to  Papa,"  and  then,  at 
the  thought  of  this  unknown  Papa,  a  little  tremor 
came  over  the  child,  though  she  would  not  have 
owned  it  to  any  one.  "  I  wonder  if  it  would  have 
cost  a  very  great  deal  for  Ellen  to  come  with  us  just 
for  a  few  days.  I  would  have  given  my  money-box 
money,  and  so  would  Roger,  I  am  sure.  I  have  fifteen 
and  sixpence,  and  he  has  seven  shillings  and  four- 
pence.  It  could  not  have  cost  more  than  all  that," 
and  then  she  set  to  work  to  count  up  how  much  her 
money  and  Roger's  added  together  would  be.  It 
would  not  come  twice  together  to  the  same  sum 
somehow,  and  Gladys  went  on  counting  it  up  over 
and  over  again  confusedly  till  at  last  it  all  got  into  a 
confusion  together,  for  she  too,  tired  out  with 
excitement  and  the  awakening  of  so  many  strange 
feelings,  had  fallen  asleep  like  poor  little  Roger. 

They  both  slept  a  good  while,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Marton  congratulated  themselves  on  having  such 
very  quiet  and  peaceable  small  fellow-travellers. 


30  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

"  They  are  no  trouble  at  all,"  said  young  Mrs. 
Marton.  "  But  on  the  boat  we  must  of  course  have 
Leonie  with  us,  in  case  of  a  bad  passage." 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  said  her  husband  ;  "  indeed  I 
think  she  had  better  be  with  us  from  London.  They 
will  be  getting  tired  by  then." 

"  They  are  tired  already,  poor  pets,"  said  Mrs. 
Marton,  who  was  little  more  than  a  girl  herself. 
"  They  don't  look  very  strong,  do  they,  Phillip  ?  " 

Mr.  Marton  took  the  cigarette  he  had  just  been 
preparing  to  enjoy  out  of  his  mouth,  and  turned 
towards  the  children,  examining  them  critically. 

"The  boy  looks  sturdy  enough,  though  he's  small. 
He's  like  Bertram.  The  girl  seems  delicate  ;  she's  so 
thin  too." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Mrs.  Marton.  "I  don't  mind,  and 
no  more  does  Leonie  ;  but  I  think  it  was  rather  hard- 
hearted of  Susan  Lacy  to  have  sent  them  off  like  that 
without  a  nurse  of  their  own.  If  she  had  not  been 
so  worried  about  Mrs.  Lacy's  illness,  I  think  I  would 
have  said  something  about  it  to  her,  even  at  the  last. 
Somehow,  till  I  saw  the  children,  I  did  not  think 
they  were  so  tiny." 

"  It'll  be  all  right  once  we  get  to  Paris  and  we  give 
them  over  to  their  father,"  said  Mr.  Marton,  who  was 
of  a  philosophical  turn  of  mind,  puffing  away  again 
at  his  cigarette.  "It  will  have  saved  some  expense, 
and  that's  a  consideration  too." 

The  children  slept  for  some  time.  When  they 
awoke  they  were  not  so  very  far  from  London.  They 
felt  less  tired  and  better  able  to  look  about  them  and 


A    PRETTY    KETTLE    OF    FISH.  31 

ask  a  few  modest  little  questions.  And  when  they 
got  to  London  they  enjoyed  the  nice  hot  cup  of  tea 
they  had  in  the  refreshment  room,  and  by  degrees 
they  began  to  make  friends  with  Leonie,  who  was 
very  bright  and  merry,  so  that  they  were  pleased  to 
hear  she  was  to  be  in  the  same  carriage  with  them 
for  the  rest  of  the  journey. 

"Till  you  see  your  dear  Papa,"  said  Leonie,  who 
had  heard  all  the  particulars  from  her  young  mistress. 

"  Yes,"  said  Gladys  quietly  —  by  this  time  they 
were  settled  again  in  another  railway  carriage — ■  "  our 
Papa's  to  be  at  the  station  to  meet  us." 

"  And  we're  to  have  a  new  nurse,"  added  Roger, 
who  was  in  a  communicative  humour.  "  Do  you 
think  she'll  be  kind  to  us  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  she  will,"  said  Leonie,  whose  heart  was 
already  won. 

"  She's  to  teach  us  French,"  said  Gladys. 

"  That  will  be  very  nice,"  said  Leonie.  "  It  is  a 
very  good  thing  to  know  many  languages." 

"Can  you  speak  French?"  asked  Roger. 

Leonie  laughed.  "Of  course  I  can,"  she  replied, 
"  French  is  my  tongue." 

Roger  sat  straight  up,  with  an  appearance  of  great 
interest. 

"  Your  tongue,"  he  repeated.  "  Please  let  me  see 
it,"  and  he  stared  hard  at  Leonie's  half-opened  mouth. 
"Is  it  not  like  our  tongues  then?" 

Leonie  stared  too,  then  she  burst  out  laughing. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  tongue  like  that,"  she  said,  "I 
mean   talking  —  language.     When    I   was  little  like 


32  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

you  I  could  talk  nothing  but  French,  just  like  you 
now,  who  can  talk  only  English." 

"And  can't  everybody  in  France  talk  English 
too?  "  asked  Gladys,  opening  her  eyes. 

"  Oh  dear  no!  "  said  Leonie. 

Gladys  and  Roger  looked  at  each  other.  This  was 
quite  a  new  and  rather  an  alarming  idea. 

"  It  is  a  very  good  thing,"  Gladys  remarked  at  last, 
"  that  Papa  is  to  be  at  the  station.  If  we  got  lost 
over  there,"  she  went  on,  nodding  her  head  in  the 
direction  of  an  imaginary  France,  "  it  would  be  even 
worse  than  in  London." 

"But  you're  not  going  to  get  lost  anywhere,"  said 
Leonie,  smiling.  "  We'll  take  better  care  of  you 
than  that." 

And  then  she  went  on  to  tell  them  a  little  story 
of  how  once,  when  she  was  a  very  little  girl,  she  had 
got  lost  —  not  in  Paris,  but  in  a  much  smaller  town 
—  and  how  frightened  she  was,  and  how  at  last  an 
old  peasant  woman  on  her  way  home  from  market 
had  found  her  crying  under  a  hedge,  and  had  brought 
her  home  again  to  her  mother.  This  thrilling  adven- 
ture was  listened  to  with  the  greatest  interest. 

"  How  pleased  your  mother  must  have  been  to  see 
you  again !  "  said  Gladys.  "  Does  she  still  live  in 
that  queer  old  town  ?  Doesn't  she  mind  you  going 
away  from  her  ?  " 

"Alas!"  said  Ldonie,  and  the  tears  twinkled  in 
her  bright  eyes,  "  my  mother  is  no  longer  of  this 
world.  She  went  away  from  me  several  years  ago. 
I  shall  not  see  her  acrain  till  in  heaven." 


A  PRETTY  KETTLE  OF  FISH.  33 

"  That's  like  us,"  said  Gladys.  "  We've  no  Mamma. 
Did  you  know?" 

"  But  you've  a  good  Papa,"  said  Leonie. 

"  Yes,"  said  Gladys,  rather  doubtfully,  for  somehow 
the  idea  of  a  real  flesh-and-blood  Papa  seemed  to  be 
getting  more  instead  of  less  indistinct  now  that  they 
were  soon  to  see  him.  "  But  he's  been  away  such  a 
very  long  time." 
.  "  Poor  darlings,"  said  Ldonie. 

"And  have  you  no  Papa,  no  little  brothers,  not 
any  one  like  that  ?  "  inquired  Gladys. 

"  I  have  some  cousins  —  very  good  people,"  said 
Leonie.  "  They  live  in  Paris,  where  we  are  now 
going.  If  there  had  been  time  I  should  have  liked 
to  go  to  see  them.  But  we  shall  stay  no  time  in 
Paris — just  run  from  one  station  to  the  other." 

"  But  the  luggage  ?  "  said  Gladys.  "  Mrs.  Marton 
has  a  lot  of  boxes.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  run  if 
you  have  them  to  carry.  I  think  it  would  be  better 
to  take  a  cab,  even  if  it  does  cost  a  little  more.  But 
perhaps  there  are  no  cabs  in  Paris.  Is  that  why  you 
talk  of  running  to  the  station  ?  " 

Leonie  had  burst  out  laughing  half-way  through 
this  speech,  and  though  she  knew  it  was  not  very 
polite,  site  really  could  not  help  it.  The  more  she 
tried  to  stop,  the  more  she  laughed. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  said  Gladys  at  last,  a  little 
offended. 

"  I  'jeS  your  pardon,"  said  Le*onie ;  "  I  know  it  is 
rude.  I iut ,  Mademoiselle,  the  idea"  —  and  here  she 
began  to  laugh  again  —  "of  Monsieur  and  Madame 


34  TWO    LITTLE   WAIFS. 

and  me  all  running  with  the  boxes  !  It  was  too 
amusing  ! " 

Gladys  laughed  herself  now,  and  so  did  Roger. 

"  Then  there  are  cabs  in  Paris,"  she  said  in  a  tone 
of  relief.  "  I  am  glad  of  that.  Papa  will  have  one 
all  ready  for  us,  I  suppose.  What  time  do  we  get 
there,  Leonie  ?  " 

Leonie  shook  her  head. 

"  A  very  disagreeable  time,"  she  said,  "  quite,  quite 
early  in  the  morning,  before  anybody  seems  quite 
awake.  And  the  mornings  are  already  so  cold.  I 
am  afraid  you  will  not  like  Paris  very  much  at 
first." 

"  Oh  yes,  they  will,"  said  Mrs.  Marton,  who  had 
overheard  the  last  part  of  the  conversation.  "  Think 
how  nice  it  will  be  to  see  their  Papa  waiting  for 
them,  and  to  go  to  a  nice  warm  house  and  have 
breakfast ;  chocolate,  most  likely.  Do  you  like 
chocolate  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very  much,"  said  Gladys  and  Roger. 

"  I  think  it  is  not  you  to  be  pitied,  anyway,"  Mrs. 
Marton  went  on,  for  the  half-appealing,  half-fright- 
ened look  of  the  little  things  touched  her.  "  It's 
much  worse  for  us  three,  poor  things,  travelling  on 
all  the  way  to  Marseilles." 

"  That's  where  Papa's  been.  Mrs.  Lacy  showed 
it  me  on  the  map.  What  a  long  way !  Poor  Mrs. 
Marton.  Wouldn't  Mr.  Marton  let  you  stay  at  Paris 
with  us  till  you'd  had  a  rest  ?  " 

"  We'd  give  you  some  of  our  chocolate,"  said 
Roger  hospitably. 


A    PRETTY   KETTLE    OF    FISH.  -  35 

"  And  let  poor  Phillip,  that's  Mr.  Martin,1'  replied 
the  young  lady,  "  go  all  the  way  to  India  alone  ?  " 

The  children  looked  doubtful. 

"  You  could  go  after  him,"  suggested  Roger. 

"  But  Leonie  and  I  wouldn't  like  to  go  so  far 
alone.  It's  nicer  to  have  a  man  to  take  care  of  you 
when  you  travel.  You're  getting  to  be  a  man,  you 
see,  Roger,  already  —  learning  to  take  care  of  your 
sister." 

"I  have  growed  a  good  big  piece  on  the  nursery 
door  since  my  birthday,"  agreed  Roger  complacently. 
"  But  when  Papa's  there  he'll  take  care  of  us  both 
till  I'm  quite  big." 

"Ah,  yes,  that  will  be  best  of  all,"  said  Mrs. 
Marton,  smiling.  "I  do  hope  Papa  will  be  there  all 
right,  poor  little  souls,"  she  added  to  herself.  For, 
though  young,  Mrs.  Marton  was  not  thoughtless,  and 
she  belonged  to  a  happy  and  prosperous  family 
where  since  infancy  every  care  had  been  lavished  on 
the  children,  and  somehow  since  she  had  seen  and 
talked  to  Gladys  and  Roger  their  innocence  and 
loneliness  had  struck  her  sharply,  and  once  or  twice 
a  misgiving  had  come  over  her  that  in  her  anxiety 
to  get  rid  of  the  children,  and  to  waste  no  money, 
Susan  Lacy  hud  acted  rather  hastily.  "  Captain 
Bertram  should  have  telegraphed  again,"  she  re- 
flected. "It  is  nearly  a  week  since  he  did  so.  I 
wisli  I  had  made  Phillip  telegraph  yesterday  to  be 
sure  all  was  right.  The  Lacys  need  not  have  known 
anything  about  it." 

But  they  were  at  Dover  now,  and  all  these  fears 


36  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

and  reflections  were  pnt  out  of  her  head  by  the  bustle 
of  embarking  and  settling  themselves  comfortably, 
and  devoutly  hoping  they  would  have  a  good  passage. 
The  words  meant  nothing  to  Gladys  and  Roger. 
They  had  never  been  on  the  sea  since  they  were 
little  babies,  and  had  no  fears.  And,  fortunately, 
nothing  disturbed  their  happy  ignorance,  for,  though 
cold,  the  sea  was  very  smooth.  They  were  dis- 
appointed at  the  voyage  being  made  in  the  dark,  as 
they  had  counted  on  all  sorts  of  investigations  into 
the  machinery  of  the  "ship,"  and  Roger  had  quite 
expected  that  his  services  would  be  required  to  help 
to  make  it  go  faster,  whereas  it  seemed  to  them  only 
as  if  they  were  taken  into  a  queer  sort  of  drawing- 
room  and  made  to  lie  down  on  red  sofas,  and  covered 
up  with  shawls,  and  that  then  there  came  a  booming 
noise  something  like  the  threshing  machine  at  the 
farm  where  they  sometimes  went  to  fetch  butter  and 
eggs,  and  then  —  and  then  —  they  fell  asleep,  and 
when  they  woke  they  were  being  bundled  into 
another  railway  carriage !  Leonie  was  carrying 
Roger,  and  Gladys,  as  she  found  to  her  great  disgust 
—  she  thought  herself  far  too  big  for  anything  of  the 
kind  —  was  in  Mr.  Marton's  arms,  where  she  struggled 
so  that  the  poor  man  thought  she  was  having  an 
attack  of  nightmare,  and  began  to  soothe  her  as  if 
she  were  about  two,  which  did  not  improve  matters. 

"  Hush,  hush,  my  dear.  You  shall  go  to  sleep 
acfain  in  a  moment,"  he  said.  "  But  what  a  little 
vixen  she  is ! "  he  added,  when  he  had  at  last  got 
Gladys,  red  and  indignant,  deposited  in  a  corner. 


A    PRETTY   KETTLE   OF    FISH.  Si 

"I'm  too  big  to  be  carried,"  she  burst  out,  half 
sobbing.     "  I  wouldn't  even  let  Papa  carry  me." 

But  kind  Mrs.  Marton,  though  she  could  hardly 
help  laughing,  soon  put  matters  right  hj  assuring 
Gladys  that  lots  of  people,  even  quite  big  grown-up 
ladies,  were  often  lifted  in  and  out  of  ships.  When 
it  was  rough  only  the  sailors  could  keep  their  foot- 
ing. So  Glad}'s,  who  was  beginning  to  calm  down 
and  to  feel  a  little  ashamed,  took  it  for  granted  that 
it  had  been  very  rough,  and  told  Mr.  Marton  she  was 
very  sorry  —  she  had  not  understood.  The  railway 
carriage  was  warm  and  comfortable,  so  after  a  while 
the  children  again  did  the  best  thing  they  could 
under  the  circumstances  —  they  went  to  sleep.  And 
so,  I  think,  did  their  three  grown-up  friends. 

Gladys  was  the  first  to  wake.  She  looked  round 
her  in  the  dim  morning  light  —  all  the  others  were 
still  asleep.  It  felt  chilly,  and  her  poor  little  legs 
were  stiff  and  numb.  She  drew  them  up  on  to  the 
seat  to  try  to  warm  them,  and  looked  out  of  the 
window.  Nothing  to  be  seen  but  damp  flat  fields, 
and  trees  with  a  few  late  leaves  still  clinging  to  them, 
and  here  and  there  a  little  cottage  or  farmhouse  look- 
ing, like  everything  else,  desolate  and  dreary.  Gladys 
withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  prospect. 

"  I  don't  like  travelling,"  she  decided.  "  I  wonder 
if  the  sun  never  shines  in  this  country." 

A  little  voice  beside  her  made  her  look  round. 

"  Gladdie,"  it  said,  "arc  we  near  that  place?  Are 
you  sure  Papa  will  be  there?  I'm  so  tired  of  these 
railways,  Gladdie." 


38  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

"So  am  I,"  said  Gladys  sympathisingly.  "I 
should  think  we'll  soon  be  there.  But  I'm  sure  I 
shan't  like  Paris,  Roger.  I'll  ask  Papa  to  take  us 
back  to  Mrs.  Lacy's  again." 

Roger  gave  a  little  shiver. 

"  It's  such  a  long  way  to  go,"  he  said.  "  I 
wouldn't  mind  if  only  Ellen  had  come  with  us,  and 
if  we  had  chocolate  for  breakfast." 

But  their  voices,  low  as  they  were,  awakened 
Leonie,  who  was  beside  them.  And  then  Mrs. 
Marton  awoke,  and  at  last  Mr.  Marton,  who  looked 
at  his  watch,  and  finding  they  were  within  ten 
minutes  of  Paris,  jumped  up  and  began  fussing  away 
at  the  rugs  and  shawls  and  bags,  strapping  them 
together,  and  generally  unsettling  everybody. 

"  We  must  get  everything  ready,"  he  said.  "  I 
shall  want  to  be  free  to  see  Bertram  at  once." 

"  But  there's  never  a  crowd  inside  the  station 
here,"  said  his  wife.  "  They  won't  let  people  in 
without  special  leave.  We  shall  easily  catch  sight 
of  Captain  Bertram  if  he  has  managed  to  get  inside." 

"  He's  sure  to  have  clone  so,"  said  Mr.  Marton,  and 
in  his  anxiety  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  his  friend, 
Mr.  Marton  spent  the  next  ten  minutes  with  his  head 
and  half  his  body  stretched  out  of  the  window  long 
before  the  train  entered  the  station,  though  even 
when  it  arrived  there  the  dim  light  would  have  made 
it  difficult  to  recognise  any  one. 

Had  there  been  any  one  to  recognise !  But  there 
Avas  not.  The  train  came  to  a  stand  at  last.  Mr. 
Marton  had  eagerly  examined  the  faces  of  the  two 


Jr. 


In  Another  Moment  the  Little  Parti'  was  making  its  Wat  thbough 
the  Station.  —  p.  39. 


A    PBETTY   KETTLE   OF   FISH.  39 

or  three  men,  not  railway  officials,  standing  on  the 
platform,  but  there  was  no  one  whom  by  any  possi- 
bility he  could  for  a  second  have  taken  for  Captain 
Bertram.  Mrs.  Marton  sat  patiently  in  her  place, 
hoping  every  instant  that  "  Phillip "  would  turn 
round  with  a  cheery  "  all  right,  here  he  is.  Here, 
children ! "  and  oh,  what  a  weight  —  a  weight  that  all 
through  the  long  night  journey  had  been  mysteri- 
ously increasing  —  would  have  been  lifted  off  the 
kind  young  lady's  heart  had  he  done  so!  But  no; 
when  Mr.  Marton  at  last  drew  in  his  head  there  was 
a  disappointed  and  perplexed  look  on  his  good- 
natured  face. 

"He's  not  here  —  not  on  the  platform,  I  mean,"  he 
said,  hastily  correcting  himself.  "  He  must  be  wait- 
ing outside ;  we'll  find  him  where  we  give  up 
the  tickets.  It's  a  pity  he  didn't  manage  to  get 
inside.  However,  we  must  jump  out.  Here,  Le*onie, 
you  take  Mrs.  Marton's  bag,  I'll  shoulder  the  rugs. 
Hallo  there,"  to  a  porter,  "  that's  all  right.  You  give 
him  the  things,  Leonie.  Omnibus,  does  he  say? 
Bless  me,  how  can  I  tell?  Bertram's  got  a  cab  en- 
gaged most  likely,  and  we  don't  want  an  omnibus  for 
us  three.     You  explain  to  him,  Leonie." 

Which  Leonie  did,  and  in  another  moment  the 
little  party  was  making  its  way  through  the  station, 
among  the  crowd  of  their  fellow-passengers.  Mr. 
Marton  first,  with  the  rugs,  then  his  wife  holding 
Gladys  by  the  hand,  then  Le'onie  and  Roger,  followed 
by  the  porter  bringing  up  the  rear.  Mrs.  Marton's 
heart  was  not  beating  fast  by  this  time  ;  it  was  al- 


40  TWO    LITTLE   WAIFS. 

most  standing  still  with  apprehension.  But  she  said 
nothing.  On  they  went  through  the  little  gate  where 
the  tickets  were  given  up,  on  the  other  side  of  which 
stood  with  eager  faces  the  few  expectant  friends  who 
had  been  devoted  enough  to  get  up  at  five  o'clock  to 
meet  their  belongings  who  were  crossing  by  the  night 
mail.  Mr.  Marton's  eyes  ran  round  them,  then 
glanced  behind,  first  to  one  side  and  then  to  the 
other  as  if  Captain  Bertram  could  jump  up  from  some 
corner  like  a  jack-in-the-box.  His  face  grew  graver 
and  graver,  but  he  did  not  speak.  He  led  his  wife 
and  the  children  and  Leonie  to  the  most  comfortable 
corner  of  the  dreary  waiting-room,  and  saying  short! y, 
"  I'm  going  to  look  after  the  luggage  and  to  hunt  up 
Bertram.  He  must  have  overslept  himself  if  he's  not 
here  yet.  You  all  wait  here  quietly  till  I  come  back," 
disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  luggage-room. 

Mrs.  Marton  did  not  speak  either.  She  drew 
Gladys  nearer  her,  and  put  her  arm  round  the  little 
girl  as  if  to  protect  her  against  the  disappointment 
which  she  felt  was  coming.  Gladys  sat  perfectly 
silent.  What  she  was  expecting,  or  fearing,  or  even 
thinking,  I  don't  believe  she  could  have  told.  She 
had  only  one  feeling  that  she  could  have  put  into 
words,  "Everything  is  quite  different  from  what  I 
thought.     It  isn't  at  all  like  going  to  Papa." 

But  poor  little  Roger  tugged  at  Leonie,  who  was 
next  him. 

"  What  are  we  waiting  here  in  this  ugly  house 
for?"  he  said.  "Can't  we  go  to  Papa  and  have  our 
chocolate  ?  " 


A    PJRETTY    KETTLE    OF    FISH.  41 

Ldonie  stooped  down  and  said  something  to  soothe 
him,  and  after  a  while  he  grew  drowsy  again,  and  his 
little  head  dropped  on  to  her  shoulder.  And  so  they 
sat  for  what  seemed  a  terribly  long  time.  It  was 
more  than  half  an  hour,  till  at  last  Mr.  Marton  ap- 
peared again. 

"  I've  only  just  got  out  that  luggage,"  he  said. 
"  What  a  detestable  plan  that  registering  it  is  !  And 
now  I've  got  it  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  it, 
for  —  " 

"  Has  he  not  come?  "  interrupted  his  wife. 

Mr.  Marton  glanced  at  Gladys.  She  did  not  seem 
to  be  listening. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  him,"  he  replied.  "  I've  hunted  right 
through  the  station  half  a  dozen  times,  and  it's  an 
hour  and  a  half  since  the  train  was  due.  It  cannot 
be  some  little  delay.  It's  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish  and 
no  mistake." 

Mrs.  Marton's  blue  eyes  gazed  up  in  her  husband's 
face  with  a  look  of  the  deepest  anxiety. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?  "  she  said. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  WHAT    IS   TO   BE   DONE  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  question." 

Hamlet. 

Yes,  "  what  was  to  be  clone  ?  "  That  was  certainly 
the  question.  Mr.  Marton  looked  at  his  wife  for  a 
moment  or  two  without  replying.  Then  he  seemed 
to  take  a  sudden  resolution. 

"We  can't  stay  here  all  the  morning,  that's  about 
all  I  can  say  at  present,"  he  said.  "  Come  along, 
we'd  better  go  to  the  nearest  hotel  and  think  over 
matters." 

So  off  they  all  set  again  —  Mr.  Marton  and  the 
rugs,  Mrs.  Marton  and  Gladys,' L^onie  and  Roger  — 
another  porter  being  got  hold  of  to  bring  such  of  the 
bags,  etc.,  as  were  not  left  at  the  station  with  the  big 
luggage.  Gladys  walked  along  as  if  in  a  dream  ; 
she  did  not  even  wake  up  to  notice  the  great  wide 
street  and  all  the  carriages,  and  omnibuses,  and  carts, 
and  people  as  they  crossed  to  the  hotel  in  front  of  the 
station.  She  hardly  even  noticed  that  all  the  voices 
about  her  were  talking  in  a  language  she  did  not 
understand  —  she  was  completely  dazed  —  the  only 
words  which  remained  clearly  in  her  brain  were  the 
strange  ones  which  Mr.  Marton  had  made  use  of —  "a 
pretty  kettle  of  fish  and  no  mistake."     "  No  mistake," 

42 


"WHAT   IS   TO   BE   DONE?"  43 

that  must  mean  that  Papa's  not  coming  to  the  station 
was  not  a  mistake,  but  that  there  was  some  reason 
for  it.  But  "  a  kettle  of  fish,"  what  could  that  have 
to  do  with  it  all  ?  She  completely  lost  herself  in 
puzzling  about  it.  Why  she  did  not  simply  ask  Mrs. 
Marton  to  explain  it  I  cannot  tell.  Perhaps  the 
distressed  anxious  expression  on  that  young  lady's 
own  face  had  something  to  do  with  her  not  doing 
so. 

Arrived  at  the  hotel,  and  before  a  good  fire  in  a 
large  dining-room  at  that  early  hour  quite  empty,  a 
slight  look  of  relief  came  over  all  the  faces.  It  was 
something  to  get  warmed  at  least !  And  Mr.  Marton 
ordered  the  hot  chocolate  for  which  Roger  had  been 
pining,  before  he  said  anything  else.  It  came  almost 
at  once,  and  Leonie  established  the  children  at  one 
of  the  little  tables,  drinking  her  own  coffee  stand- 
ing, that  she  might  attend  to  them  and  join  in 
the  talking  of  her  master  and  mistress  if  they 
wished  it. 

Roger  began  to  feel  pretty  comfortable.  He  had 
not  the  least  idea  where  he  was  —  he  had  never  before 
in  his  life  been  at  a  hotel,  and  would  not  have  known 
what  it  meant  —  but  to  find  himself  warmed  and  fed 
and  Gladys  beside  him  was  enough  for  the  moment ; 
and  even  Gladys  herself  began  to  feel  a  very  little 
less  stupefied  and  confused.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Marton,  at 
another  table,  talked  gravely  and  in  a  low  voice. 
At  last  Mr.  Marton  called  Le'onie. 

"  Come  here  a  minute,"  he  said,  "  and  see  if  you 
can  throw  any  light  on  the  matter.     You  are  more 


44  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

at  home  in  Paris  than  we  are.  Mrs.  Marton  and  I 
are  at  our  wits'  end.  If  we  had  a  few  days  to  spare 
it  would  not  be  so  bad,  but  we  have  not.  Our  berths 
are  taken,  and  we  cannot  afford  to  lose  three  pas- 
sages." 

"Mine  too,  sir,"  said  Leonie.  "Is  mine  taken 
too?" 

"Of  course  it  is.  You  didn't  suppose  you  were 
going  as  cabin-boy,  did  you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Marton  rather 
crossly,  though  I  don't  think  his  being  a  little  cross 
was  to  be  wondered  at.  Poor  Le*onie  looked  very 
snubbed. 

"  I  was  only  wondering,"  she  said  meekly,  "  if  I 
could  have  stayed  behind  with  the  poor  children 
till—" 

"  Impossible,"  said  Mr.  Marton  ;  "  lose  your  pas- 
sage for  a  day  or  two's  delay  in  their  father's  fetch- 
ing them.  If  I  thought  it  was  more  than  that  I 
would  send  them  back  to  England,"  he  added,  turn- 
ing to  his  wife. 

"  And  poor  Mrs.  Lacy  so  ill !  Oh  no,  that  would 
never  do,"  she  said. 

"And  there's  much  more  involved  than  our  pas- 
sages," he  went  on.  "  It's  as  much  as  my  appoint- 
ment is  worth  to  miss  this  mail.  It's  just  this  — 
Captain  Bertram  is  either  here,  or  has  been  detained 
at  Marseilles.  If  he's  still  there,  we  can  look  him  up 
when  we  get  there  to-morrow ;  if  he's  in  Paris,  and 
has  made  some  stupid  mistake,  we  must  get  his 
address  at  Marseilles,  he's  sure  to  have  left  it  at  the 
hotel  there  for  letters  following  him,  and  telegraph 


"WHAT    IS    TO    BE    DONE?"  45 

back  to  him  here.  I  never  did  know  anything  so 
senseless  as  Susan  Lacy's  not  making  him  give  a 
Paris  address,"  he  added. 

"  He  was  only  to  arrive  here  yesterday  or  the  day 
before,"  said  Mrs.  Marton. 

"  But  the  friends  who  were  to  have  a  nurse  ready 
for  the  children  ?    We  should  have  had  some  address." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Marton  self-reproachfully.  "  I 
wish  I  had  thought  of  it.  But  Susan  was  so  sure  all 
would  be  right.  And  certainly,  in  case  of  anything 
preventing  Captain  Bertram's  coming,  it  was  only 
natural  to  suppose  he  would  have  telegraphed,  or  sent 
some  one  else,  or  done  something." 

"  Well  —  all  things  considered,"  said  Mr.  Marton, 
"  it  seems  to  me  the  best  thing  to  do  is  to  leave  the 
children  here,  even  if  we  had  a  choice,  which  I  must 
say  I  don't  see !  For  I  don't  know  how  I  could  send 
them  back  to  England,  nor  what  their  friends  there 
might  find  to  say  if  I  did  —  nor  can  we  —  " 

"  Take  them  on  to  Marseilles  with  us  ? "  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Marton.  "  Oh,  Phillip,  would  not  that 
be  better  ?  " 

"  And  find  that  their  father  had  just  started  for 
Paris?"  replied  her  husband.  "And  then  think  of 
the  expense.  Here,  they  are  much  nearer  at  hand 
if  they  have  to  be  fetched  back  to  England." 

Mrs.  Marton  was  silent.  Suddenly  another  idea 
struck  her.     She  started  up. 

"  Supposing  Captain  Bertram  has  come  to  the  sta- 
tion  since  we  left,"  she  exclaimed.  "He  may  be 
there  now." 


46  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

Mr.  Marton  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"  No  fear,"  he  said.  "  Every  official  in  the  place 
knows  the  whole  story.  I  managed  to  explain  it,  and 
told  them  to  send  him  over  here." 

"  And  what  are  you  thinking  of  doing,  then  ? 
Where  can  we  leave  them?" 

Mr.  Marton  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  That's  just  the  point,"  he  said.  "  We've  only 
three  hours  unless  we  put  off  till  the  night  express, 
and  that  is  running  it  too  fine.  Any  little  detention 
and  we  might  miss  the  boat." 

"  We've  run  it  too  fine  already,  I  fear,"  said  Mrs. 
Marton  dolefully.  "  It's  been  my  fault,  Phillip  — 
the  wanting  to  stay  in  England  till  the  last  minute." 

"  It's  Susan  Lacy's  fault,  or  Bertram's  fault,  or 
both  our  faults  for  being  too  good-natured,"  said  Mr. 
Marton  gloomily.  "  But  that's  not  the  question  now. 
I  don't  think  we  should  put  off  going,  for  —  another 
reason  —  it  would  leave  us  no  time  to  look  up  Ber- 
tram at  Marseilles.  Only  if  we  had  had  a  few  hours, 
I  could  have  found  some  decent  people  to  leave  the 
children  with  here,  some  good  '  pension,'  or  —  " 

"  But  such  places  are  all  so  dear,  and  we  have  to 
consider  the  money  too." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Marton,  "  we  have  literally  to  do 
so.  I've  only  just  in  cash  what  we  need  for  our- 
selves, and  I  couldn't  cash  a  cheque  here  all  in  a 
minute,  for  my  name  is  not  known.  But  something 
must  be  fixed,  and  at  once.  I  wonder  if  it  would  be 
any  good  if  I  were  to  consult  the  manager  of  this 
hotel?     I—" 


"WHAT    IS    TO    BE    DONE?"  47 

"  Pardon,"  said  Ldonie,  suddenly  interrupting.  "  I 
have  an  idea.  My  aunt  —  she  is  really  my  cousin, 
but  I  call  her  aunt  —  you  know  her  by  name,  Ma- 
dame?" she  went  on,  turning  to  Mrs.  Marton.  "My 
mother  often  spoke  of  her"  —  for  Mrs.  Marton's  fam- 
ily had  known  Leonie's  mother  long  ago  when  she 
had  been  a  nurse  in  England  —  "Madame  Nestor. 
They  are  upholsterers  in  the  Rue  Verte,  not  very  far 
from  here,  quite  in  the  centre  of  Paris.  They  are 
very  good  people  —  of  course,  quite  in  a  little  wa}r ; 
but  honest  and  good.  They  would  do  their  best,  just 
for  a  few  days !  It  would  be  better  than  leaving  the 
dear  babies  with  those  we  knew  nothing  of.  I  think 
I  could  persuade  them,  if  I  start  at  once ! "  She 
began  drawing  her  gloves  on  while  she  was  speaking. 
And  she  had  spoken  so  fast  and  confusedly  that  for  a 
moment  or  two  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Marton  stared  at 
her,  not  clearly  taking  in  what  she  meant. 

"  Shall  I  go,  Madame  ? "  she  said,  with  a  little 
impatience.  "  There  is  no  time  to  lose.  Of  course 
if  you  do  not  like  the  idea  —  I  would  not  have 
thought  of  it  except  that  all  is  so  difficult,  so  unex- 
pected." 

"  Not  like  it  ?  "  said  Mr.  Marton  ;  "  on  the  contrary 
I  think  it's  a  capital  idea.  The  children  would  be  in 
safe  hands,  and  at  worst  it  can't  be  for  more  than  a 
couple  of  days.  If  Captain  Bertram  has  been  detained 
at  Marseilles  by  illness  or  anything —  " 

"That's  not  likely,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Marton,  "he 
would  have  written  or  telegraphed." 

"Well,  then,  if  it's  some  stupid  mistake  about  the 


48  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

day,  he'll  come  off  at  once  when  we  tell  him  where 
they  are.  I  was  only  going  to  say  that,  at  worst,  if 
he  is  ill,  or  anything  wrong,  we'll  telegraph  to  Susan 
Lacy  from  Marseilles  and  she'll  send  over  for  them 
somehow." 

"  Should  we  not  telegraph  to  her  at  once  from 
here  ?  " 

Mr.  Marton  considered. 

"  I  don't  see  the  use,"  he  said  at  last.  "  We  can 
tell  her  nothing  certain,  nothing  that  she  should  act 
on  yet.  And  it  would  only  worry  the  old  lady  for 
nothing." 

"  I'm  afraid  she's  too  ill  to  be  told  anything  about 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Marton. 

"Then  the  more  reason  for  waiting.  But  here  we 
are  losing  the  precious  minutes,  and  Le*onie  all  ready 
to  start.  Off  with  you,  Leonie,  as  fast  as  ever  you 
can,  and  see  what  you  can  do.  Take  a  cab  and  make 
him  drive  fast,"  he  called  after  her,  for  she  had  started 
off  almost  with  his  first  words.  "She's  a  very  good 
sort  of  a  girl,"  he  added,  turning  to  his  wife. 

"  Yes,  she  always  has  her  wits  about  her  in  an 
emergency,"  agreed  Mrs.  Marton.  "  I  do  hope,"  she 
went  on,  "  that  what  we  are  doing  will  turn  out  for 
the  best.  I  really  never  did  know  anything  so  un- 
fortunate, and  —  " 

"  Is  it  all  because  of  the  kettle  of  fish  ?  Did  Papa 
tumble  over  it?  Oh,  I  wish  you'd  tell  me!"  said  a 
pathetic  little  voice  at  her  side,  and  turning  round 
Mrs.  Marton  caught  sight  of  Gladys,  her  hands  clasped, 
her  small  white  face  and  dark  eyes  gazing  up  beseech- 


"WHAT    IS    TO    BE    DONE?"  49 

ingly.  It  had  grown  too  much  for  her  at  last,  the 
bewilderment  and  the  strangeness,  and  the  not  under- 
standing. And  the  change  from  the  cramped-up 
railway  carriage  and  the  warm  breakfast  had  refreshed 
her  a  little,  so  that  gradually  her  ideas  were  growing 
less  confused.  She  had  sat  on  patiently  at  the  table 
long  after  she  had  finished  her  chocolate,  though 
Roger  was  still  occupied  in  feeding  himself  by  tiny 
spoonfuls.  He  had  never  had  anything  in  the  way 
of  food  more  interesting  than  this  chocolate,  for  it  was 
still  hot,  and  whenever  he  left  it  for  a  moment  a  skin 
grew  over  the  top,  which  it  was  quite  a  business  to 
clear  away  —  catching  now  and  then  snatches  of  the 
eager  anxious  talk  that  was  going  on  among  the  big 
people.  And  at  last  when  Leonie  hurried  out  of  the 
room,  evidently  sent  on  a  message,  Gladys  felt  that 
she  must  find  out  what  was  the  matter  and  what  it 
all  meant.  But  the  topmost  idea  in  her  poor  little 
brain  was  still  the  kettle  of  fish. 

"  If  Papa  has  hurt  himself,"  Gladys  went  on,  "  I 
think  it  would  be  better  to  tell  me.  I'd  so  much 
rather  know.  I'm  not  so  very  little,  Mrs.  Marton, 
Mrs.  Lacy  used  to  tell  me  things." 

Mrs.  Marton  stooped  down  and  put  her  arms 
round  the  pathetic  little  figure. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  take  you  with  me  all  the 
way.  Oh  !  I'm  so  sorry  for  you,  my  poor  little  pet," 
she  exclaimed  girlishly.  "  But  indeed  we  are  not 
keeping  anything  from  you.  I  only  wish  we  had 
anything  to  tell.  We  don't  know  ourselves  ;  we  have 
no  idea  why  your  father  has  not  come." 


50  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

"  But  the  kettle  of  fish  ?  "  repeated  Gladys. 

Mrs.  Marton  stared  at  her  a  moment,  and  then 
looked  up  at  her  husband.     He  grew  a  little  red. 

"  It  must  have  been  I  that  said  it,"  he  explained. 
"  It  is  only  an  expression ;  a  way  of  speaking,  little 
Gladys.  It  means  when  —  when  people  are  rather 
bothered,  you  know  —  and  can't  tell  what  to  do.  I 
suppose  it  comes  from  somebody  once  upon  a  time 
having  had  more  fish  than  there  was  room  for  in  their 
kettle,  and  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  them." 

"  Then  we're  the  fish  —  Roger  and  I  —  I  suppose, 
that  you  don't  know  what  to  do  with  ?  "  said  Gladys, 
her  countenance  clearing  a  little.  "I'm  very  sorry. 
But  I  think  Papa'll  come  soon;  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  replied  Mr.  Marton.  "Something 
must  have  kept  him  at  Marseilles,  or  else  he's  mis- 
taken the  da}r  after  all." 

"  I  thought  you  said  it  was  '  no  mistake  !  ' "  said 
Gladys. 

Mr.  Marton  gave  a  little  groan. 

"  Oh,  you're  a  dreadful  little  person  and  no  —  there, 
I  was  just  going  to  say  it  again !  That's  only  an  ex- 
pression too,  Gladys.  It  means,  'to  be  sure,'  or  'no 
doubt  about  it,'  though  I  suppose  it  is  a  little  what 
one  calls  'slang.'  But  you  don't  know  anything 
about  that,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Gladys  simply,  "  I  don't  know  what  it 
means." 

"  And  I  haven't  time  to  tell  you,  for  we  must 
explain  to  you  what  we're  thinking  of  doing.  You 
tell  her,  Lilly,  I'm  going  about  the  luggage,"  he  added, 


"WHAT   IS   TO   BE   DONE?"  51 

turning  to  his  wife,  for  he  was  dreadfully  tender- 
hearted, though  he  was  such  a  big  strong  young  man, 
and  he  was  afraid  of  poor  Gladys  beginning  to  cry  or 
clinging  to  them  and  begging  them  not  to  leave  her 
and  Roger  alone  in  Paris,  when  she  understood  what 
was  intended. 

But  Gladys  was  not  the  kind  of  child  to  do  so. 
She  listened  attentively,  and  seemed  proud  of  being 
treated  like  a  bisf  girl,  and  almost  before  Mrs.  Mar- 
ton  had  done  speaking  she  had  her  sensible  little 
answer  ready. 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  she  said.  "  It  is  much  better  for  us 
to  stay  here,  for  Papa  might  come  very  soon,  mightn't 
he  ?  Only,  supposing  he  came  this  afternoon  he 
wouldn't  know  where  we  were?" 

"  Mr.  Marton  will  give  the  address  at  the  station, 
in  ease  your  Papa  inquires  there,  as  he  very  likely 
would,  if  a  lady  and  gentleman  and  two  children 
arrived  there  from  England  this  morning.  And  he 
will  also  leave  the  address  here,  for  so  many  people 
come  here  from  the  station.  And  when  we  get  to 
Marseilles,  we  will  at  once  go  to  the  hotel  where  he 
was  —  where  he  is  still,  perhaps ;  if  he  has  left,  he  is 
pretty  sure  to  have  given  an  address." 

••  And  if  he's  not  there  —  if  you  can't  find  him  — 
what  will  you  do  then?"  said  Gladys,  opening  wide 
her  eyes  and  gazing  up  in  her  friend's  face. 

Mis.  Marton  hesitated. 

"I  suppose  if  we  really  could  not  find  your  father 
at  once,  we  should  have  to  write  or  telegraph  to  Miss 
Susan." 


62  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

Gladys  looked  more  distressed  than  she  had  yet 
done. 

"Don't  do  that,  please,"  she  said,  clasping  her 
hands  together  in  the  way  she  sometimes  did,  "  I'd 
much  rather  stay  here  a  little  longer  till  Papa  comes. 
It  would  be  such  a  trouble  to  Miss  Susan  —  I  know 
she  did  think  we  were  a  great  trouble  sometimes  — 
and  it  would  make  Mrs.  Lacy  cry  perhaps  to  have 
to  say  good-bye  again,  and  she's  so  ill." 

"  Yes,  I  know  she  is,"  said  Mrs.  Marton,  surprised 
at  the  little  girl's  thoughtfulness.  "  But  you  know, 
dear,  Ave'd  have  to  let  them  know,  and  then  most 
likely  they'd  send  over  for  you." 

"  But  Papa's  sure  to  come,"  said  Gladys.  "  It 
would  only  be  waiting  a  little,  and  I  don't  mind 
much,  and  I  don't  think  Roger  will,  not  if  I'm  with 
him.  Will  they  be  kind  to  us,  do  you  think,  those 
friends  of  L6onie's  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  they  will ;  otherwise  you  know,  dear, 
we  wouldn't  leave  you  with  them.  Of  course  it  will 
only  be  for  a  day  or  two,  for  they  are  quite  plain 
people,  with  quite  a  little  house." 

"I  don't  mind,  not  if  they're  kind  to  us,"  said 
Gladys.  "  But,  oh  !  I  do  wish  you  weren't  going 
away." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Mrs.  Marton,  who  felt  really  very 
nearly  breaking  down  herself.  The  sort  of  quiet 
resignation  about  Gladys  was  very  touching,  much 
more  so  than  if  she  had  burst  out  into  sobs  and  tears. 
It  was  perhaps  as  well  that  just  at  that  moment  Mr. 
Marton  came  back,  and  saying  something  in  a  low 


"WHAT    IS    TO    BE    DONE?"  53 

voice  to  bis  wife,  drew  her  out  of  the  room,  where  in 
the  passage  stood  Leonie. 

"  Back  already,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Marton  in  sur- 
prise. 

"  Oh  yes,"  Leonie  replied,  "  it  was  not  far,  and  the 
coachman  drove  fast.  But  I  thought  it  better  not  to 
speak  before  the  children.  It  is  a  very  little  place, 
Madame.  I  wonder  if  it  will  do."  She  seemed  anx- 
ious and  a  little  afraid  of  what  she  had  proposed. 

"But  can  they  take  them?  That  is  the  principal 
question,"  said  Mr.  Marton. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Leonie.  "  My  aunt  is  goodness 
itself.  She  understands  it  all  quite  well,  and  would 
do  her  best ;  and  it  would  certainly  be  better  than  to 
leave  them  with  strangers,  and  would  cost  much  less ; 
only  —  the  poor  children  !  —  all  is  so  small  and  so 
cramped.  Just  two  or  three  little  rooms  behind  the 
shop ;  and  they  have  been  used  to  an  English 
nursery,  and  all  so  nice." 

"  I  don't  think  they  have  been  spoilt  in  some 
wa}rs,"  said  Mrs.  Marton.  "Poor  little  Gladys  seems 
to  mind  nothing  if  she  is  sure  of  kindness.  Besides, 
what  else  can  we  do?  And  it  is  very  kind  of  your 
aunt  to  consent,  Leonie." 

"Yes,  Madame.  It  is  not  for  gain  that  she  does 
it.  Indeed  it  will  not  be  gain,  for  she  must  find  a 
room  for  her  son,  and  arrange  his  room  for  the  dear 
children.  They  have  little  beds  among  the  furniture, 
so  that  will  be  easy;  and  ;ill  is  very  elean  —  my  aunt 
is  a  good  manager  —  but  only  — " 

Ldonie  looked  very  anxious. 


54  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

"  Oh  I'm  sure  it  will  be  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Mar- 
ton.  "  I  think  we  had  better  take  them  at  once  — 
I've  got  the  luggage  out  —  and  then  we  can  see  for 
ourselves." 

The  children  were  soon  ready.  Gladys  had  been 
employing  the  time  in  trying  to  explain  to  poor  little 
Roger  the  new  change  that  was  before  them.  He 
did  not  find  it  easy  to  understand,  but,  as  Gladys 
had  said,  he  did  not  seem  to  mind  anything  so  long 
as  he  was  sure  he  was  not  to  be  separated  from  his 
sister. 

A  few  minutes'  drive  brought  them  to  the  Rue 
Verte.  It  was  a  narrow  street  —  narrow,  at  least  in 
comparison  with  the  wide  new  ones  of  the  present 
day,  for  it  was  in  an  old-fashioned  part  of  Paris,  in 
the  very  centre  of  one  of  the  busiest  quarters  of  the 
town ;  but  it  was  quite  respectable,  and  the  people 
one  saw  were  all  well-dressed  and  well-to-do  looking. 
Still  Mr.  Marton  looked  about  him  uneasily. 

"  Dreadfully  crowded  place,"  he  said  ;  "  must  be 
very  stuffy  in  warm  weather.  I'm  glad  it  isn't 
summer ;  we  couldn't  have  left  them  here  in  that 
case." 

And  when  the  cab  stopped  before  a  low  door  lead- 
ing into  a  long  narrow  shop,  filled  with  sofas  and 
chairs,  and  great  rolls  of  stuffs  for  making  curtains 
and  beds  and  mattresses  in  the  background,  Mr. 
Marton's  face  did  not  grow  any  brighter.  But  it  did 
brighten  up,  and  so  did  his  wife's,  when  from  the 
farther  end  of  the  shop,  a  glass  door,  evidently  lead 
ing  into  a  little  sitting-room,  opened,   and  an  elderly 


"WHAT   IS   TO   BE   DONE?"  55 

woman,  with  a  white  frilled  cap  and  a  bright  healthy 
face,  with  the  kindliest  expression  in  the  world,  came 
forward  eagerly. 

"  Pardon,"  she  said  in  French,  "  I  had  not  thought 
the  ladies  would  be  here  so  soon.  But  all  will  be 
ready  directly.  And  are  these  the  dear  children  ?  " 
she  went  on,  her  pleasant  face  growing  still  plea- 
santer. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Marton,  who  held  Gladys  by  one 
hand  and  Roger  by  the  other,  "  these  are  the  two 
little  strangers  you  are  going  to  be  so  kind  as  to  take 
care  of  for  a  day  or  two.  It  is  very  kind  of  you, 
Madame  Nestor,  and  I  hope  it  will  not  give  you 
much  trouble.     Leonie  has  explained  all  to  you?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  replied  Madame  Nestor,  "  poor  darlings  ! 
What  a  disappointment  to  them  not  to  have  been 
met  by  their  dear  Papa !  But  he  will  come  soon, 
and  they  will  not  be  too  unhappy  with  us." 

Mrs.  Marton  turned  to  the  children. 

"What  does  she  say?  Is  she  the  new  nurse?" 
whispered  Roger,  whose  ideas,  notwithstanding 
Gladys's  explanations,  were  still  very  confused.  It 
was  not  a  very  bad  guess,  for  Madame  Nestor's  good- 
humoured  face  and  clean  cap  gave  her  very  much 
ill-  look  of  a  nurse  of  the  old-fashioned  kind.  Mrs. 
Marton  stooped  down  and  kissed  the  little  puzzled 
face. 

"No,  dear,"  she  said,  "she's  not  your  nurse.  She 
is  LeVmie's  aunt,  and  she's  going  to  take  care  of  you 
for  a  few  days  till  your  Papa  comes.  And  she  says 
she  will  be  very,  very  kind  to  you." 


56  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

But  Roger  looked  doubtful. 

"  Why  doesn't  she  talk  p'operly  ?  "  he  said,  draw- 
ing back. 

Mrs.  Marton  looked  rather  distressed.  In  the 
hurry  and  confusion  she  had  not  thought  of  this 
other  difficulty — that  the  children  would  not  under- 
stand what  their  new  friends  said  to  them !  Gladys 
seemed  to  feel  by  instinct  what  Mrs.  Marton  was 
thinking. 

"  I'll  try  to  learn  French,"  she  said  softly,  "  and 
then  I  can  tell  Roger." 

Leonie  pressed  forward. 

"  Is  she  not  a  dear  child  ? "  she  said,  and  then 
she  quickly  explained  to  her  aunt  what  Gladys  had 
whispered.     The  old  lady  seemed  greatly  pleased. 

"  My  son  speaks  a  little  English,"  she  said,  with 
evident  pride.  "  He  is  not  at  home  now,  but  in  the 
evening,  when  he  is  not  busy,  he  must  talk  with  our 
little  demoiselle." 

"  That's  a  good  thing,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Marton, 
who  felt  the  greatest  sympathy  with  Roger,  for  his 
own  French  would  have  been  sadly  at  fault  had  lie 
had  to  say  more  than  two  or  three  words  in  it. 

Then  Madame  Nestor  took  Mrs.  Marton  to  see  the 
little  room  she  was  preparing  for  her  little  guests. 
It  was  already  undergoing  a  good  cleaning,  so  its 
appearance  was  not  very  tempting,  but  it  would  not 
have  done  to  seem  anything  but  pleased. 

"  Anyway  it  will  be  clean"  thought  Mrs.  Marton, 
"  but  it  is  very  dark  and  small."  For  though  it  was 
the  best  bedroom,  the   window   looked   out  on   to   a 


"WHAT    IS    TO    BE    DONE?"  57 

narrow  sort  of  court  between  the  houses,  whence  but 
little  light  could  find  its  way  in,  and  Mrs.  Marton 
could  not  help  sighing  a  little  as  she  made  her  way 
back  to  the  shop,  where  Mr.  Marton  was  explaining 
to  Leonie  about  the  money  he  was  leaving  with 
Madame  Nestor. 

"  It's  all  I  can  possibly  spare,"  he  said,  "  and  it  is 
English  money.  But  tell  your  aunt  she  is  sure  to 
hear  in  a  day  or  two,  and  she  will  be  fully  repaid  for 
any  other  expense  she  may  have." 

"  Oh  dear,  yes,"  said  Leonie,  "  my  aunt  is  not  at 
all  afraid  about  that.  She  has  heard  too  much  of  the 
goodness  of  Madame's  family  to  have  any  fears  about 
anything  Madame  wishes.  Her  only  trouble  is 
whether  the  poor  children  will  be  happy." 

"  I  feel  sure  it  will  not  be  Madame  Nestor's  fault 
if  they  are  not,"  said  Mrs.  Marton,  turning  to  the 
kind  old  woman.  It  was  all  she  could  say,  for  she 
felt  by  no  means  sure  that  the  poor  little  things 
would  be  able  to  be  happy  in  such  strange  circum- 
stances. The  tears  filled  her  eyes  as  she  kissed 
them  again  for  the  last  time,  and  it  was  with  a  heavy 
heart  she  got  back  into  the  cab  which  was  to  take 
her  husband  and  herself  and  Le'onie  to  the  Mar- 
seilles station.  Mr.  Marton  was  very  little  happier 
than  his  wife. 

"  I  wish  to  goodness  Susan  Lacy  had  managed  her 
affairs  herself,"  he  grumbled.  "  Poor  little  souls  !  I 
shall  be  thankful  to  know  that  they  are  safe  with 
their  father." 


58  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

Ldonie  was  sobbing  audibly  in  her  pocket-hand- 
kerchief. 

"  My  aunt  will  be  very  kind  to  them,  so  far  as  she 
understands.  That  is  the  only  consolation,"  she  said, 
amidst  her  tears. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN   THE   RUE   VERTE. 

"The  city  looked  sad.    The  heaven  was  gray." 

Songs  in  Minor  Keys. 

"  Gladdie,  are  you  awake  ?  " 

These  were  the  first  words  that  fell  on  Gladys's 
ears  the  next  morning.  I  cannot  say  the  first  sounds, 
for  all  sorts  of  strange  and  puzzling  noises  had  been 
going  on  above  and  below  and  on  all  sides  since  ever 
so  early,  as  it  seemed  to  her  —  in  reality  it  had  been 
half-past  six  —  she  had  opened  her  eyes  in  the  dark, 
and  wondered  and  wondered  where  she  was !  Still 
in  the  railway  carriage  was  her  first  idea,  or  on  the 
steamer  —  once  she  had  wakened  enough  to  remember 
that  she  was  not  in  her  own  little  bed  at  Mrs.  Lacy's. 
But  no  —  people  weren't  undressed  in  the  railway, 
even  though  they  did  sometimes  lie  down,  and  then 
—  though  the  sounds  she  heard  were  very  queer  — 
she  soon  felt  she  was  not  moving.  And  bit  by  bit 
it  all  came  back  to  her  —  about  the  long  tiring  jour- 
ney, and  no  Papa  at  the  station,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Marton  and  Le'onie  all  talking  together,  and  the 
drive  in  the  cab  to  the  crowded  narrow  street,  and 
the  funny  old  woman  with  the  frilled  cap,  and  the 
shop  full  of  chairs  and  sofas,  and  the  queer  unnatural 
long    afternoon    after  their  friends  went    away,  and 

59 


60  TWO   LITTLE    WAIFS. 

how  glad  at  last  she  and  Roger  were  to  go  to  bed 
even  in  the  little  stuffy  dark  room.  How  dark  it 
was !  It  must  still  be  the  middle  of  the  night, 
Gladys  thought  for  some  time,  only  that  everybody 
except  herself  and  Roger  seemed  to  be  awake  and 
bustling  about.  For  the  workroom,  as  Gladys  found 
out  afterwards,  was  overhead,  and  the  Avorkpeople 
came  early  and  were  not  particular  about  making  a 
noise.  It  was  very  dull,  and  in  spite  of  all  the  little 
girl's  courage,  a  few  tears  would  make  their  way  up 
to  her  eyes,  though  she  tried  her  best  to  force  them 
back,  and  she  lay  there  perfectly  quiet,  afraid  of  wak- 
ing Roger,  for  she  was  glad  to  hear  by  his  soft  breath- 
ing that  he  was  still  fast  asleep.  But  she  could  not 
help  being  glad  when  through  the  darkness  came  the 
sound  of  bis  voice. 

"  Gladdie,  are  you  awake?" 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  replied,  "  I've  been  awake  a  long 
time." 

"So  have  I,"  said  Roger  in  all  sincerity — he  had 
been  awake  about  three  minutes.  "  It's  very  dark  ; 
is  it  the  middle  of  the  night?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so,"  Gladys  replied.  "  I  hear 
people  making  a  lot  of  noise." 

"  Gladdie,"  resumed  Roger  half  timidly  —  Gladys 
knew  what  was  coming — "may  I  get  into  your 
bed?" 

"  It's  very  small,"  said  Gladys,  which  was  true, 
though  even  if  it  had  not  been  so,  she  would  prob- 
ably have  tried  to  get  out  of  Roger's  proposal,  for 
she  was  not  half  so  fond  of  his  early  morning  visits 


IN"   THE   RUE   VERTE.  61 

as  he  was.  In  the  clays  of  old  "  nurse  "  such  doings 
were  not  allowed,  but  after  she  left,  Gladys  had  not 
the  heart  to  be  very  strict  with  Roger,  and  now  in 
spite  of  her  faint  objection,  she  knew  quite  well  she 
would  have  to  give  in,  in  the  end. 

"So's  mine,"  observed  Roger,  though  Gladys  could 
not  see  what  that  had  to  do  with  it.  But  she  said 
nothing,  and  for  about  half  a  minute  there  was 
silence  in  the  dark  little  room.     Then  again. 

"  Gladdie,"  came  from  the  corner,  "  mayn't  I  come  ? 
If  we  squeezed  ourselves  ?  " 

"  Very  well,"  said  Gladys,  with  a  little  sigh  made 
up  of  many  different  feelings.  "  You  can  come  and 
try." 

But  a  new  difficulty  arose. 

"  I  can't  find  my  way  in  the  dark.  I  don't  'amem- 
ber  how  the  room  is  in  the  light,"  said  Roger  dole- 
fully. "  When  I  first  waked  I  couldn't  think  where 
we  were.     Can't  you  come  for  me,  Gladdie  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  find  my  way  if  you  can't,"  Gladys 
was  on  the  point  of  replying,  but  she  checked  her- 
self. She  felt  as  if  she  could  not  speak  the  least 
sharply  to  her  little  brother,  for  he  had  nobody  but 
her  to  take  care  of  him,  and  try  to  make  him  happy. 
So  she  clambered  out  of  her  bed,  starting  with  the 
surprise  of  the  cold  floor,  which  had  no  carpet,  and 
trying  to  remember  the  chairs  and  things  that  stood 
in  the  way,  managed  to  get  across  the  room  to  the 
opposite  corner  where  stood  Roger's  bed,  without  any 
very  bad  knocks  or  bumps. 

"  I'm  here,"  cried  Roger,  as  if  that  was  a  piece  of 


62  TWO   LITTLE    WAIFS. 

news,  "I'm  standing  up  in  my  bed  jigging  up  and 
down.     Can  you  find  me,  Gladdie  ?  " 

"  I'm  feeling  for  you,"  Gladys  replied.  "  Yes, 
here's  the  edge  of  your  cot.  I  would  have  found 
you  quicker  if  you  had  kept  lying  down." 

"Oh,  then,  I'll  lie  down  again,"  said  Roger,  but  a 
cry  from  Gladys  stopped  him. 

"  No,  no,  don't,"  she  said.  "  I've  found  you  now. 
Yes,  here's  your  hand.  Now  hold  mine  tight,  and 
see  if  you  can  get  over  the  edge.  That's  right.  Now 
come  very  slowly,  round  by  the  wall  is  best.  Here's 
my  bed.  Climb  in  and  make  yourself  as  little  as 
ever  you  can.  I'm  coming.  Oh,  Roger,  what  a 
squeeze  it  is  !  " 

"  I  think  it's  littler  than  my  bed,"  said  Roger  con- 
solingly. 

"  It's  not  airy  bigger  anyway,"  replied  Gladys, 
"  we  might  just  as  well  have  stayed  in  yours." 

"  Is  it  because  they're  poor  that  the  beds  is  so 
very  little?"  asked  Roger  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Gladys  gravely. 
"  They're  very  nice  beds ;  I  think  they're  almost 
quite  new." 

"  Mine  was  very  comfitable,"  said  Roger.  "  Do 
you  think  all  poor  childrens  have  as  nice  beds  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Gladys  solemnly.  "  I'm 
afraid  that  some  haven't  any  beds  at  all.  But  why 
do  you  keep  talking  about  poor  children,  Roger?" 

"  I  wanted  to  know  about  them  'cos,  you  see, 
Gladys,  if  Papa  wasn't  never  finded  and  we  had  to 
stay  here,  we'd  be  poor." 


IN   THE   RUE   VERTE.  63 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Gladys  rather  sharply,  in  spite 
of  her  resolutions,  "it  couldn't  be  like  that ;  of  course 
Papa  will  come  in  a  few  days,  and  —  and,  even  if  he 
didn't,  though  that's  quite  nonsense,  }rou  know,  I'm 
only  saying  it  to  make  you  see,  even  if  he  didn't, 
we'd  not  stay  here." 

"Where  would  we  go?"  said  Roger  practically. 

"  Oh,  back  to  Mrs.  Lacy  perhaps.  I  wouldn't 
mind  if  Miss  Susan  was  married." 

" I  would  rather  go  to  India  with  them"  said 
Roger.     Gladys  knew  whom  he  meant. 

"  But  we  can't,  they've  gone,"  she  replied. 

"  Are  they  gone,  and  Lenie,  that  nice  nurse  —  are 
they  gone?"  said  Roger,  appalled. 

"Yes,  of  course.  They'll  be  nearly  at  India  by 
now,  I  daresay." 

Roger  began  to  cry. 

"Why,  you  knew  they  were  gone.  Why  do  you 
cry  about  it  now  —  you  didn't  cry  yesterday  ?  "  said 
Gladys,  a  little  sharply  it  must  be  confessed. 

"I  thought,"  sobbed  Roger,  "I  thought  they'd 
gone  to  look  for  Papa,  and  that  they'd  come  to  take 
us  a  nice  walk  every  day,  and  —  and  — "  He  did 
not  very  well  know  wliat  he  had  thought,  but  he  had 
certainly  not  taken  in  that  it  was  good-bye  for  good 
to  the  new  friends  he  had  already  become  fond  of. 
"  I'm  sure  you  said  they  were  gone  to  look  for  Papa," 
he  repeated,  rather  crossly  in  his  turn. 

"  Well,  dear,"  Gladys  explained,  her  heart  smiting 
her,  "  they  have  gone  to  look  for  Papa.  They  thought 
they'd  find  him  at  the  big  town  at  the  side  of  the  sea 


04  TWO   LITTLE    WAIFS. 

where  the  ships  go  to  India  from,  and  then  they'd 
tell  him  where  we  were  in  Paris,  and  he'd  come  quick 
for  us." 

"Is  this  Paris?"  asked  Roofer. 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  replied  Gladys. 

"I  don't  like  it,"  continued  the  little  boy.  "Do 
you,  Gladys?" 

"  It  isn't  like  what  I  thought,"  said  Gladys  ;  "  noth- 
ing's like  what  I  thought.  I  don't  think  when  we 
go  home  again,  Roger,  that  I'll  ever  play  at  pretend 
games  any  more." 

"  How  do  you  mean  when  we  go  home  ? "  said 
Roger.     "  Where's  home  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  I  said  it  without  thinking. 
Roger  —  " 

"What?"  said  Roger. 

"  Are  you  hungry  ?  "  asked  Gladys. 

"  A  little  ;  are  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  think  I  am,  a  little,"  replied  Gladys. 
"  I  couldn't  eat  all  that  meat  and  stuff  they  gave  us 
last  night.     I  wanted  our  tea." 

"  And  bread  and  butter,"  suggested  Roo-er. 

"  Yes ;  at  home  I  didn't  like  bread  and  butter 
much,  but  I  think  I  would  now.  I  daresay  they'd 
give  it  us  if  I  knew  what  it  was  called  in  their  talk- 
ing,'" said  Gladys. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  so  bad  if  we  knew  their  talking," 
sighed  Roger. 

"  It  wouldn't  bo  so  bad  if  it  Avould  get  light,"  said 
his  sister.  "I  don't  know  what  to  do,  Roger.  It's 
hmrs  since  they've  all  been  up,  and  nobody's  come  to 
us.     I  wonder  if  they've  forgotten  we're  here." 


IN   THE   KTJE   VEIITE.  65 

"  There's  a  little  tiny.,  weeny  inch  of  light  begin- 
ning to  come  over  there.  Is  that  the  window?"  said 
Roger. 

"  I  suppose  so.  As  soon  as  it  gets  more  light  I'll 
get  up  and  look  if  there's  a  bell,"  decided  Gladys. 

"  And  if  there  is  ?  " 

"  I'll  ring  it,  of  course." 

"But  what  would  Miss—  Oh,  Gladys,"  he  burst 
out  with  a  merry  laugh,  the  first  Gladys  had  heard 
from  him  since  the  journey.  "  Isn't  I  silly  ?  I  was 
just  going  to  say,  c  What  would  Miss  Susan  say  ?  '  I 
quite  forgot.  I'm  not  sorry  she's  not  here.  Are  you, 
Gladdie  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  little  girl  answered.  Truth 
to  tell,  there  were  times  when  she  would  have  been 
very  thankful  to  see  Miss  Susan,  even  though  she 
was  determined  not  to  ask  to  go  back  to  England  till 
all  hope  was  gone.  "I'm  not  —  "  but  what  she  was 
going  to  say  remained  unfinished.  The  door  opened 
at  last,  and  the  frilled  cap,  looking  so  exactly  the 
same  as  yesterday  that  Gladys  wondered  if  Madame 
Nestor  slept  in  it,  only  if  so,  how  did  she  keep  it 
from  getting  crushed,  appeared  by  the  light  of  a 
candle  surrounding  the  kindly  face. 

"  Bon  jour,  my  children,"  she  said. 

"  That  means  'good-morning,'"  whispered  Gladys, 
"I  know  that.     Say  it,  Roger." 

Why  Roger  was  to  "say  it"  and  not  herself  I 
cannot  tell.  Some  unintelligible  sound  came  from 
Roger's  lips,  for  which  Gladys  hastened  to  apologise. 

"He's  trying  to  say  'good-morning'  in  French," 


66  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

she  explained,  completely  forgetting  that  poor  Ma- 
dame Nestor  could  not  understand  her. 

"Ah,  my  little  dears,"  said  the  old  woman  —  in  her 
own  language  of  course  —  "I  wish  I  could  know  what 
you  say.  Ah,  how  sweet  they  are !  Both  together 
in  one  bed,  like  two  little  birds  in  a  nest.  And  have 
you  slept  well,  my  darlings?   and  are  you  hungry?" 

The  children  stared  at  each  other,  and  at  their  old 
hostess. 

"  Alas,"  she  repeated,  "  they  do  not  understand. 
But  they  will  soon  know  what  I  mean  when  they  see 
the  nice  bowls  of  hot  chocolate." 

"  Chocolate  !  "  exclaimed  both  children.  At  last 
there  was  a  word  they  could  understand.  Madame 
Nestor  was  quite  overcome  with  delight. 

"  Yes,  my  angels,  chocolate,"  she  repeated,  nodding 
her  head.  "  The  little  servant  is  bringing  it.  But  it 
was  not  she  that  made  it.  Oh,  no !  It  was  myself 
who  took  care  it  should  be  good.  But  you  must 
have  some  liglft,"  and  she  went  to  the  window, 
which  had  a  curtain  drawn  before  it,  and  outside 
heavy  old-fashioned  wooden  shutters.  No  wonder  in 
November  that  but  little  light  came  through.  It 
was  rather  a  marvel  that  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning  even  a  "  tiny  weeny  inch "  had  begun  to 
make  its  way. 

With  some  difficulty  the  old  woman  removed  all 
the  obstructions,  and  then  such  poor  light  as  there 
was  came  creeping  in.  But  first  she  covered  the  two 
children  up  warmly,  so  that  the  cold  air  when  the 
window  was  opened  should  not  get  to  them. 


She  placed  the  Whole  on  a  Little  Table  which  she  drew  close  to 
the  Bed.  —p.  G7. 


EST   THE    RUE    VEUTE.  67 

"  Would  not  do  for  them  to  catch  cold,  that  would 
be  a  pretty  story,"  she  muttered  to  herself,  for  she 
had  a  funny  habit  of  talking  away  about  everything 
she  did.  Then,  when  all  was  air-tight  again,  there 
came  a  knock  at  the  door.  Madame  Nestor  opened 
it,  and  took  from  the  hands  of  an  invisible  person  a 
little  tray  with  two  steaming  bowls  of  the  famous 
chocolate  and  two  sturdy  hunches  of  very  "hole-y" 
looking  bread.  No  butter ;  that  did  not  come  within 
Madame  Nestor's  ideas.  She  placed  the  whole  on  a 
little  table  which  she  drew  close  to  the  bed,  and  then 
wrapping  a  shawl  round  the  children,  she  told  them 
to  take  their  breakfast.  They  did  not,  of  course, 
understand  her  words,  but  when  she  gave  Roger  his 
bowl  and  a  preliminary  hunch  of  bread  into  his 
hands,  they  could  not  but  see  that  they  were  expected 
to  take  their  breakfast  in  bed. 

"  But  we're  not  ill,"  exclaimed  Gladys;  "  we  never 
stay  in  bed  to  breakfast  except  when  we're  ill." 

Madame  Nestor  smiled  and  nodded.  She  had  not 
a  notion  what  Gladys  meant,  and  on  her  side  she 
quite  forgot  that  the  children  could  not  understand 
her  any  better  than  she  understood  them. 

"  We  never  stay  in  bed  to  breakfast  unless  we're 
ill"  repeated  Gladys  more  loudly,  as  if  that  would 
help  Madame  Nestor  to  know  what  she  meant. 

"  Never  mind,  Gladdie  —  the  chocolate's  very 
good,"  said  Roger. 

As  before,  "  chocolate  "  was  the  only  word  Madame 
Nestor  caught. 

"  Yes,  take  your  chocolate,"  she  repeated  ;  "  don't 


68  TWO  LITTLE   WAIFS. 

let  it  get  cold,"  and  she  lifted  Gladys's  bowl  to  give 
it  to  her. 

"Stupid  old  thing,"  murmured  Gladys,  "why 
doesn't  she  understand  ?  I  should  like  to  throw  the 
chocolate  in  her  face." 

"  Oh,  Gladdie,"  said  Roger  reproachfully,  "  think 
what  a  mess  it  would  make  on  the  clean  sheets  !  " 

"  I  was  only  in  fun  —  you  might  know  that,"  said 
Gladys,  all  the  same  a  little  ashamed  of  herself. 

Madame  Nestor  had  by  this  time  left  the  room 
with  a  great  man3T  incomprehensible  words,  but  very 
comprehensible  smiles  and  nods. 

"  I  think  breakfast  in  bed's  very  good,"  said  Roger. 
Then  came  a  sadder  exclamation.  "  They've  give  me 
a  "pudding  spoon  'stead  of  a  teaspoon.  It's  so  big  — 
it  won't  hardly  go  into  my  mouth." 

"  And  me  too,"  said  Gladys.  "  How  stupid  French 
people  are  !  We'll  have  to  drink  it  out  of  the  bowls, 
Roger.     How  funny  it  is  not  to  have  tea-cups  !  " 

"  I  think  it's  best  to  take  it  like  soup,"  said  Roger  ; 
"you  don't  need  to  put  the  spoon  so  much  in  your 
mouth  if  you  think  it's  soup." 

"  I  don't  see  what  difference  that  makes,"  returned 
Glad}^s.  But  anyhow  the  chocolate  and  the  bread 
disappeared,  and  then  the  children  began  to  wonder 
how  soon  they  might  get  up.  Breakfast  in  bed  wasn't 
so  bad  as  long  as  there  was  the  breakfast  to  eat,  but 
when  it  was  finished  and  there  was  no  other  amuse- 
ment at  hand  they  began  to  find  it  very  tiresome. 
They  had  not  so  very  long  to  wait,  however,  before 
Madame  Nestor  again  made  her  appearance. 


IN   THE   RUE   YEETE.  69 

"  Mayn't  we  get  up  ?  "  cried  both  children,  spring- 
ing up  in  bed  and  jumping  about,  to  show  how  ready 
they  were.  The  old  lady  seemed  to  understand  this 
time,  but  first  she  stood  still  for  a  moment  or  two 
with  her  head  on  one  side  admiring  them. 

"  The  little  angels  !  "  she  said  to  herself.  "  How 
charming  they  are.  Come  now,  my  darlings,  and 
get  quickly  dressed.  It  is  cold  this  morning,"  and 
she  took  Roger  in  her  arms  to  lift  him  down,  while 
Gladys  clambered  out  by  herself.  Their  clothes  were 
neatly  placed  in  two  little  heaps  on  the  top  of  the 
chest  of  drawers,  which,  besides  the  two  beds  and  two 
or  three  chairs,  was  the  only  furniture  in  the  room. 
Madame  Nestor  sat  down  on  One  of  the  chairs  with 
Roger  on  her  knee  and  began  drawing  on  his  stockings. 

t;  Well  done,"  she  said,  when  one  was  safely  in  its 
place  ;  "  who  would  have  thought  I  was  still  so  clever 
a  nurse ! "  and  she  surveyed  the  stockinged  leg  with 
much  satisfaction.  Roger  seemed  quite  of  her  opin- 
ion, and  stuck  out  the  other  set  of  pink  toes  with 
much  amiability.  He  greatly  approved  of  this  mode 
of  being  dressed.  Miss  Susan  had  told  Ellen  he  was 
big  enough,  at  five  years  old,  to  put  on  his  stockings 
himself,  and  she  had  also  been  very  strict  about  sun- 
dry other  nursery  regulations,  to  which  the  young 
gentleman,  in  cold  weather  especiall}-,  was  by  no 
means  partial.  But  he  was  not  to  get  off  as  easily 
as  lie  hoped.  His  silence,  which  with  him  always 
meant  content,  caught  Gladys's  attention,  which  till 
now  hud  been  taken  up  with  her  own  stockings,  as  she 
had  a  particular  way  of  her  own  of  arranging  them 
lutore  putting  them  on. 


70  TWO   LITTLE    WAIFS. 

"  Roger,"  she  exclaimed  when  she  turned  round 
and  saw  him  established  on  Madame  Nestor's  moth- 
erly lap  ;  "  what  are  you  thinking  of  ?  You  haven't 
had  your  bath." 

Roger's  face  grew  red,  and  the  expression  of  satis- 
faction fled. 

"  Need  I — ?  "  he  was  beginning  meekly,  but  Gladys 
interrupted  him  indignantly : 

"  You  dirty  little  boy,"  she  said.  "  What  would 
Miss  Susan  say?"  at  which  Roger  began  to  cry,  and 
poor  Madame  Nestor  looked  completely  puzzled. 

"  We  didn't  have  a  bath  last  night,  you  know,  be- 
cause in  winter  Miss  Susan  thinks  once  a  day  is 
enough.  But  I  did  think  we  should  have  had  one, 
after  the  journey  too.  And  anyway  this  morning  we 
must  have  one." 

But  Madame  Nestor  only  continued  to  stare. 

"  What  shall  I  say  ?  How  can  I  make  her  under- 
stand?" said  Gladys  in  despair.  "Where's  the  little 
basin  we  washed  our  faces  and  hands  in  yesterday, 
Roger  ?  "  she  went  on,  looking  round  the  room.  "  Oh, 
I  forgot  —  it  was  downstairs.  There's  no  basin  in  this 
room !  What  dirty  people  !  "  then  noticing  the  puz- 
zled look  on  Madame  Nestor's  face,  she  grew  fright- 
ened that  perhaps  she  was  vexed.  "  Perhaps  she 
knows  what  '  dirty '  means,"  she  half  whispered  to 
herself.  "  Oh  dear,  I  don't  mean  to  be  rude,  ma'am," 
she  went  on,  "  but  I  suppose  you  don't  know  about 
children.     How  can  I  explain  ?  " 

A  brilliant  idea  struck  her.  In  a  corner  of  the 
room  lay  the   carpet-bag  in  which  Miss  Susan  had 


IN  THE   RUE   VERTE.  71 

packed  their  nightgowns  and  slippers,  and  such  things 
as  they  would  require  at  once.  There  were,  too,  their 
sponges  ;  and,  as  Miss  Susan  had  been  careful  to  point 
out,  a  piece  of  soap,  "  which  you  never  find  in  French 
hotels,"  she  had  explained  to  Gladys.  The  little  girl 
dived  into  the  bag  and  drew  out  the  sponges  and  soap 
in  triumph. 

"  See,  see,"  she  exclaimed,  darting  back  again  to 
the  old  lady,  and  flourishing  her  treasure-trove, 
"  that's  what  I  mean  !  We  must  have  a  bath"  raising 
her  voice  as  she  went  on  ;  "  we  must  be  washed  and 
sponged ;  "  and  suiting  the  action  to  the  word  she 
proceeded  to  pat  and  rub  Roger  with  the  dry  sponge, 
glancing  up  at  Madame  Nestor  to  see  if  the  panto- 
mime was  understood. 

"  Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure,"  Madame  Nestor  exclaimed, 
her  face  lighting  up,  "  I  understand  now,  my  little 
lady.  All  in  good  time  —  you  shall  have  water  to 
wash  your  face  and  hands  as  soon  as  you  are  dressed. 
But  let  me  get  this  poor  little  man's  things  on 
quickly.     It  is  cold  this  morning." 

She  began  to  take  off  Roger's  nightgown  and  to 
draw  on  his  little  flannel  vest,  to  which  he  would 
have  made  no  objection,  but  Gladys  got  scarlet  with 
vexation. 

"No,  no,"  she  cried,  "he  must  be  washed  first. 
If  you  haven't  got  a  bath,  you  might  anyway  let  us 
have  a  basin  and  some  water.  Roger,  you  are  a 
dirty  boy.  You  might  join  me,  and  then  perhaps 
she'd  do  it." 

Thus    adjured,  Roger   rose   to  the    occasion.     He 


72  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

slipped  off  Madame  Nestor's  knee,  and  stepping  out 
of  his  nightgown  began  an  imaginary  sponging  of  his 
small  person.  But  it  was  cold  work,  and  Madame 
Nestor  seeing  him  begin  to  shiver  grew  really  uneasy, 
and  again  tried  to  get  him  into  his  flannels. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Roger,  in  his  turn  —  he  had  left  off 
crying  now  —  even  the  cold  wasn't  so  bad  as  Gladdie 
calling  him  a  dirty  boy.  Besides  who  could  tell 
whether,  somehow  or  other,  Miss  Susan  might  not 
come  to  hear  of  it  ?  Gladys  might  write  her  a  letter. 
"No,  no,"  repeated  Roger  valorously,  "we  must  be 
washed  first.'''' 

"  You  too,"  said  Madame  Nestor  in  despair ;  "  ah, 
what  children  !  "  But  her  good-humour  did  not  de- 
sert her.  Vaguely  understanding  what  they  meant 
—  for  recollections  began  to  come  back  to  her  mind 
of  Avhat  Leonie's  mother  used  to  tell  her  of  the  man- 
ners and  customs  of  her  nurseries — -she  got  up,  and 
smiling  still,  though  with  some  reproach,  at  her  queer 
little  guests,  she  drew  a  blanket  from  the  bed  and 
wrapped  it  round  them,  and  then  opening  the  door 
she  called  downstairs  to  the  little  servant  to  bring  a 
basin  and  towel  and  hot  water.  But  the  little 
servant  did  not  understand,  so  after  all  the  poor  old 
lady  had  to  trot  downstairs  again  herself. 

"  My  old  legs  will  have  exercise  enough,"  she  said 
to  herself,  "  if  the  Papa  does  not  come  soon.  How- 
ever !  " 

"  I'm  sure  she's  angry,"  whispered  Roger  to  Gladys 
inside  the  blanket,  "  we  needn't  have  a  bath  every 
day,  Gladdie." 


IN  THE   RUE   VERTE.  73 

"  Hush,"  said  Gladj-s  sternly.  "  I'm  not  going  to 
let  you  learn  to  be  a  dirty  boy.  If  we  can't  have  a 
bath  we  may  at  least  be  washed." 

"  But  if  Papa's  coming  for  us  to-day  or  to-morrow," 
Roger  said,  "  the  new  nurse  could  wash  us.  I  don't 
believe  Papa's  coming  for  us,"  he  went  on  as  if  he 
were  going  to  cry  again.  "  I  believe  we're  going  to 
stay  here  in  this  nugly  little  house  always  —  and  it's 
all  a  trick.     I  don't  believe  we've  got  any  Papa." 

Poor  Gladys  did  not  know  what  to  say.  Her  own 
spirits  were  going  down  again,  for  she  too  was  afraid 
that  perhaps  Madame  Nestor  was  vexed,  and  she 
began  to  wonder  if  perhaps  it  would  have  been  better 
to  let  things  alone  for  a  day  or  two  —  "If  I  was  sure 
that  Papa  would  come  in  a  day  or  two,"  she  thought ! 
But  she  felt  sure  of  nothing  now  —  everything  had 
turned  out  so  altogether  differently  from  what  she 
had  expected  that  her  courage  was  flagging,  and  she 
too,  for  the  first  time  since  their  troubles  had  begun, 
followed  Roger's  example  and  burst  into  tears. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AMONG   THE   SOFAS   AND   CHAIRS. 

"  They  wake  to  feel 
That  the  world  is  a  changeful  place  to  live  in, 
And  almost  wonder  if  all  is  real." 

Lavender  Lady. 

So  it  was  rather  a  woe-begone  looking  little  couple, 
crouching  together  in  the  blanket,  that  met  old 
Madame  Nestor's  eyes  when,  followed  by  the  little 
servant  with  the  bisrefest  basin  the  establishment 
boasted  of,  and  carrying  herself  a  queer-shaped  tin 
jug  full  of  hot  water  and  with  a  good  supply  of  nice 
white  towels  over  her  arm,  she  entered  the  room 
again. 

"  How  now,  my  little  dears  ? "  she  exclaimed ; 
"  not  crying,  surely  ?  Why,  there's  nothing  to  cry 
for!" 

Gladys  wiped  her  eyes  with  the  skirt  of  her  little 
nightgown,  and  looked  up.  She  did  not  know  what 
the  old  woman  was  saying,  but  her  tone  was  as  kind 
as  ever.  It  was  very  satisfactory,  too,  to  see  the 
basin,  small  as  it  was,  and  still  more,  the  plentiful 
hot  water. 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Gladys  gravely,  and 
nudging  Roger  to  do  the  same.  Everybody,  she  had 
noticed    the    day    before,    had    called    the    old    lady 

74 


AMONG  THE   SOFAS   AND   CHAIRS.  75 

"  madame,"  but  that  was  the  French  for  "  ma'am " 
Leonie  had  told  her,  so  she  stuck  to  her  native 
colours. 

"  Thank  you,"  repeated  Roger,  but  without  the 
"ma'am."  "It  sounds  so  silly,  nobody  says  it  but 
servants,"  he  maintained  to  Gladys,  and  no  doubt  it 
mattered  very  little  whether  he  said  it  or  not,  as 
Madame  Nestor  didn't  understand,  though  she  was 
quick  enough  to  see  that  her  little  guests  meant  to 
say  something  civil  and  kind.  And  the  washing  was 
accomplished  —  I  cannot  say  without  difficulty,  for 
Roger  tried  to  stand  in  the  basin  and  very  nearly  split- 
it  in  two,  and  there  was  a  great  splashing  of  water 
over  the  wooden  floor  —  on  the  whole  with  success. 

Poor  Madame  Nestor !  When  she  had  at  last  grot 
her  charges  safely  into  their  various  garments,  she 
sat  down  on  a  chair  by  the  bed  and  fairly  panted ! 

"It's  much  harder  than  cooking  a  dinner,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "  I  can't  think  how  my  cousin  Marie 
could  stand  it,  if  they  have  this  sort  of  business  every 
morning  with  English  children.  And  five,  six  of 
them  as  there  are  sometimes  !  The  English  are  a 
curious  nation." 

But  she  turned  as  smilingly  as  ever  to  Gladys  and 
Roger ;  and  Gladys,  seeing  that  she  was  tired,  and 
being  sensible  enough  to  understand  that  the  kind 
old  woman  was  really  giving  herself  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  for  their  sake,  went  and  stood  close  beside 
her,  and  gently  stroked  her,  as  she  sometimes  used  to 
do  —  when  Miss  Susan  was  not  there,  be  it  remarked 
—  to  Mrs.  Lacy. 


76  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  how  to  say  '  thank  you  '  in  French," 
said  Gladys  to  Roger.  But  Madame  Nestor  had 
understood  her. 

"  Little  dear,"  she  said  in  her  own  language,  "  she 
thinks  I  am  tired."  The  word  caught  Gladys's  ear 
— "  fatigued,"  she  interrupted,  "  I  know  what  that 
means.  Poor  Mrs.  Nest,"  she  explained  to  her  little 
brother,  "she  says  she's  fatigued.  I  think  we  should 
kiss  her,  Roger,"  and  both  children  lifted  up  their 
soft  fresh  rosy  lips  to  the  old  woman,  which  was  a 
language  that  needed  no  translation. 

"Little  dears,"  she  repeated  again,  "but,  all  the 
same,  I  hope  we  shall  soon  have  some  news  from  the 
Papa.  Ah  !  "  she  interrupted  herself ;  "  but  there  is 
the  clock  striking  nine,  and  my  breakfast  not  seen  to. 
I  must  hasten,  but  what  to  do  with  these  angels  while 
I  am  in  the  kitchen  ?  " 

"  Take  them  with  you ;  children  are  very  fond  of 
being  in  a  kitchen  when  they  may,"  would  have 
seemed  a  natural  reply.  But  not  to  those  who  know 
what  a  Paris  kitchen  is.  Even  those  of  large  grand 
houses  would  astonish  many  English  children  and 
big  people,  too,  who  have  never  happened  to  see  them, 
and  Madame  Nestor's  kitchen  was  really  no  better 
than  a  cupboard,  and  a  cupboard  more  than  half  filled 
up  with  the  stove,  in  and  on  which  everything  was 
cooked.  There  could  be  no  question  of  taking  the 
children  into  the  kitchen,  and  the  tiny  room  behind 
the  shop  was  very  dark  and  dull.  Still  it  was  the 
only  place,  and  thither  their  old  friend  led  them, 
telling  them  she  must  now  go  to  cook  the  breakfast 


AMONG  THE   SOFAS    AND   CHAIRS.  77 

and  they  must  try  to  amuse  themselves ;  in  the  after- 
noon she  would  perhaps  send  them  out  a  walk. 

Two  words  in  this  were  intelligible  to  Gladys. 

"  We  are  to  be  amused,  Roger,"  she  said,  "  and  we 
are  to  promenade,  that  means  a  walk  where  the  band 
plays  like  at  Whitebeach  last  summer.  I  wonder 
where  it  can  be  ?  " 

The  glass  door  which  led  into  the  shop  had  a  little 
curtain  across  it,  but  one  corner  was  loose.  This 
Gladys  soon  discovered. 

"  See  here,  Roger,"  she  said,  "  we  can  peep  into 
the  shop  and  see  if  any  one  comes  in.  Won't  that 
be  fun  ?  " 

Roger  took  his  turn  of  peeping. 

"  It  aren't  a  pretty  shop,"  he  said,  "  it's  all  chairs 
and  tables.  I'd  like  a  toy-shop,  Gladdie,  wouldn't 
you?" 

"  It  wouldn't  be  much  good  if  we  mightn't  play 
with  the  toys,"  Gladys  replied.  "  But  I'll  tell  you 
what,  Roger,  we  might  play  at  beautiful  games  of 
houses  in  there.  We  could  have  that  corner  where 
there  are  the  pretty  blue  chairs  for  our  drawing-room, 
and  we  might  pay  visits.  Or  I  might  climb  in  there 
behind  that  big  sofa  and  be  a  princess  in  a  giant's 
castle,  and  you  might  come  and  fight  with  the  giant 
and  get  me  out." 

"And  who'd  be  the  giant?"  asked  Roger. 

"  Oh,  we  can  pretend  him.  I  can  make  a  dreadful 
booin//  when  I  see  you  coming,  and  you  can  pretend 
you  see  him.  But  you  must  have  a  sword.  What 
would  do  for  ;i  sword?"  she  went  on,  looking  round. 


78  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

"  They  haven't  even  a  poker !  I  wish  we  had  Miss 
Susan's  umbrella." 

"  Here's  one ! "  exclaimed  Roger,  spying  the  um- 
brella of  Monsieur  Adolphe,  Madame  Nestor's  son,  in 
a  corner  of  the  room.  It  was  still  rather  damp,  for 
poor  Adolphe  had  had  to  come  over  in  the  heavy  rain 
early  that  morning  from  the  neighbouring  inn  where 
he  had  slept,  having,  as  you  know,  given  up  his  room 
to  the  two  little  strangers,  and  his  mother  would  have 
scolded  him  had  she  noticed  that  he  had  put  it  down 
all  dripping,  though  as  the  floor  was  a  stone  one  it  did 
not  much  matter.  And  the  children  were  not  partic- 
ular. They  screwed  up  the  wet  folds  and  buttoned 
the  elastic,  and  then  shouldering  it,  Roger  felt  quite 
ready  to  fight  the  imaginary  giant. 

There  was  a  little  difficulty  about  opening  the  door 
into  the  shop,  and  rather  too  little  about  shutting  it, 
for  it  closed  with  a  spring,  and  nearly  snapped  Roger 
and  his  umbrella  in  two.  But  he  was  none  the  worse 
save  a  little  bump  on  his  head,  which  Gladys  per- 
suaded him  not  to  cry  about.  It  would  never  do  to 
cry  about  a  knock  when  he  was  going  to  fight  the 
giant,  she  assured  him,  and  then  she  set  to  work, 
planning  the  castle  and  the  way  Roger  was  to  come 
creeping  through  the  forest,  represented  by  chairs 
and  stools  of  every  shape,  so  that  he  grew  quite  inter- 
ested and  forgot  all  his  troubles. 

It  really  turned  out  a  very  amusing  game,  and 
when  it  was  over  they  tried  hide-and-seek,  which 
would  have  been  famous  fun  —  there  were  so  many 
hiding-holes  among  the  bales  of  stuffs  and  pillows 


AMONG   THE   SOFAS   AND   CHAIES.  79 

and  uncovered  cushions  lying  about  —  if  they  had  had 
one  or  two  more  to  play  at  it  with  them !  But  to 
playfellows  they  wrere  little  accustomed,  so  they  did 
not  much  miss  them,  and  they  played  away  con- 
tentedly enough,  though  quietly,  as  was  their  habit. 
And  so  it  came  about  that  Madame  Nestor  never 
doubted  that  they  wrere  in  the  little  back-room  where 
she  had  left  them,  when  a  ring  at  the  front  door  of 
the  shop  announced  a  customer. 

This  door  was  also  half  of  glass,  and  when  it  was 
opened  a  bell  rang.  Gladys  and  Roger  were  busy 
looking  for  new  hiding-places  when  the  sudden  sound 
of  the  bell  startled  them. 

"  Somebody's  coming  in,"  whispered  Gladys  ; 
"  Roger,  let's  hide.  Don't  let  them  see  us ;  we  don't 
know  who  they  are,"  and  quick  as  thought  she 
stooped  down  in  a  corner,  drawing  her  little  brother 
in  beside  her. 

From  where  they  were  they  could  peep  out.  Two 
ladies  entered  the  shop,  one  young  and  one  much 
older.  The  face  of  the  older  one  Gladys  did  not  dis- 
tinctly see,  or  perhaps  she  did  not  much  care  to  look 
at  it,  so  immediately  did  the  younger  one  seize  her 
fancy.  She  was  very  pretty  and  pleasant  looking, 
with  bright  brown  hair  and  sweet  yet  merry  eyes,  and 
as  she  threw  herself  down  on  a  seat  which  stood  near 
the  door,  Gladys  was  able  to  see  that  she  was  neatly 
and  prettily  dressed. 

"  Aren't  you  tired,  Auntie  ?  "  she  said  to  the  other 
Lady. 

"A  little.     It  is   farther  than  I  thought,  and  we 


80  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

have  not  much  time.     I  wonder  what  colour  will  be 
prettiest  for  the  curtains,  Rosamond?" 

"  The  shade  of  blue  on  that  sofa  over  in  the  corner 
is  pretty,"  said  the  young  lady. 

Gladys  pinched  Roger.  It  was  precisely  behind 
the  blue-covered  sofa  that  they  were  hiding. 

"I  wish  they  would  be  quick,"  said  the  elder  lady. 
"  Perhaps  they  did  not  hear  the  bell." 

"  Shall  I  go  to  the  door  and  ring  it  again  ?  "  asked 
the  one  called  Rosamond. 

"  I  don't  know;  perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  tap 
at  the  glass  door  leading  into  the  house.  Madame 
Nestor  sits  in  there,  I  fancy.  She  generally  comes 
out  at  that  door." 

"  I  don't  fancy  she  is  there  now,"  said  the  young 
lady.  "  You  see  we  have  come  so  early.  It  has 
generally  been  in  the  afternoon  that  we  have  come, 
Madame  Nestor  is  probably  busy  about  her  '  house- 
hold avocations '  at  this  hour,"  she  added,  with  a 
smile. 

"  1  wonder  what  that  means,"  whispered  Gladys. 
"  I  suppose  it  means  the  dinner." 

Just  at  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Madame 
Nestor  appeared,  rather  in  a  flutter.  She  was  so  sorry 
to  have  kept  the  ladies  waiting,  and  how  unfortunate ! 
Her  son  had  just  gone  to  their  house  with  the  pat- 
terns for  the  curtains.  He  would  have  sent  yesterday 
to  ask  at  what  hour  the  ladies  would  be  at  home,  but 
they  had  all  been  so  busy  —  an  unexpected  arrival  — 
and  Madame  Nestor  would  have  gone  on  to  give  all 
the  story  of  Leonie's  sudden  visit  to  beg  a  shelter  for 


AMONG   THE   SOFAS   AND    CHAIRS.  81 

the  two  little  waifs,  had  not  the  ladies,  who  knew  of 
old  the  good  dame's  long  stories,  cut  her  short  as 
politely  as  they  could. 

"  We  are  very  hurried,"  said  the  one  whom  the 
young  lady  called  "  auntie."  "  I  think  the  best  thing 
to  be  done  is  to  get  home  as  quickly  as  we  can,  and 
perhaps  we  shall  still  find  your  son  there ;  if  not,  he 
will  no  doubt  have  left  the  patterns,  so  please  tell 
him  to  try  to  come  this  evening  or  to-morrow  morning 
before  twelve,  for  we  must  have  the  curtains  this 
week." 

Of  course  —  of  course  —  Madame  Nestor  agreed 
to  everything  as  amiably  as  possible,  and  the  ladies 
turned  to  go. 

"  Are  you  much  troubled  with  mice  ? "  said  the 
younger  lady  as  they  were  leaving.  "  I  have  heard 
queer  little  noises  two  or  three  times  over  in  that 
corner  near  the  blue  sofa  while  we  were  speaking." 

Old  Madame  Nestor  started. 

"  Mice  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  hope  not.  It  would 
be  very  serious  for  us  —  with  so  many  beautiful  stuffs 
about.  I  must  make  them  examine,  and  if  necessary 
get  a  cat.  We  have  not  had  a  cat  lately  —  the  last 
was  stolen,  she  was  such  a  beauty,  and  —  " 

And  on  the  old  body  would  have  chattered  for 
another  half-hour,  I  daresay,  had  not  the  ladies  again 
repeated  that  they  were  very  hurried  and  must  hasten 
home. 

The  idea  of  mice  had  taken  hold  of  Madame  Nes- 
tor's mind  ;  it  made  her  for  the  moment  forget  the 
children,  though  in  passing  through  the  little  room 


82  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

where  she  had  left  them  she  had  wondered  where  they 
were.  She  hurried  into  the  workroom  to  relate  her 
fears,  and  Gladys  and  Roger,  as  soon  as  she  had  left 
the  shop,  jumped  up,  not  sorry  to  stretch  their  legs 
after  having  kept*  them  still  for  nearly  a  quarter  of 
an  hour. 

"  I  wonder  if  she'd  be  angry  at  our  playing  here," 
said  Gladys.  "  What  fun  it  was  hiding  and  those 
ladies  not  knowing  we  were  there  !  I  think  they 
were  nice  ladies,  but  I  wish  they  had  kept  on  talking 
properly.     I  liked  to  hear  what  they  said." 

"Why  doesn't  everybody  talk  properly  here  if 
some  does  ?  "  asked  Roger. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Gladys,  though  she  had  not 
thought  of  it  before,  it  had  seemed  so  natural  to  hear 
people  talking  as  she  had  always  heard  people  talk 
—  "I  suppose  those  ladies  are  English.  I  wish 
they  had  talked  to  us,  Roger.  Perhaps  they  know 
Papa." 

"  They  couldn't  talk  to  us  when  they  didn't  know 
us  Avas  there,"  said  Roger,  with  which  Gladys  could 
not  disagree.  But  it  made  her  feel  rather  sorry  not 
to  have  spoken  to  the  ladies  —  it  would  have  been 
very  nice  to  have  found  some  one  who  could  under- 
stand what  they  said. 

"  I  wish  we  hadn't  been  hiding,"  she  was  going  to 
say,  but  she  Avas  stopped  by  a  great  bustle  which 
began  to  make  itself  heard  in  the  sitting-room,  and 
suddenly  the  door  into  the  shop  opened,  and  in  rushed 
Madame  Nestor,  followed  by  the  servant  and  two  or 
three  of  the  Avorkpeople. 


AMONG   THE   SOFAS   AND   CHAIRS.  83 

"  Where  are  they,  then  ?  Where  can  they  have 
gone,  the  poor  little  angels  ? "  exclaimed  the  old 
lady,  while  the  servant  and  the  others  ran  after  her, 
repeating : 

"  Calm  yourself,  Madame,  calm  yourself.  They 
cannot  have  strayed  far  —  they  will  be  found." 

Though  the  children  could  not  understand  the 
words,  they  could  not  Misunderstand  the  looks  and 
the  tones,  and,  above  all,  the  distress  in  their  kind 
old  friend's  face.  They  were  still  half  hidden,  though 
they  Were  no  longer  crouching  down  on  the  floor. 
Out  ran  Gladys,  followed  by  Roger. 

"Are  you  looking  for  us,  Mrs.  Nest?"  she  said. 
"  Here  we  are  !  We've  only  been  playing  at  hiding 
among  the  chairs  and  sofas." 

Madame  Nestor  sank  down  exhausted  on  the  near- 
est arm-chair. 

"  Oh,  but  you  have  given  me  a  fright,"  she  panted 
out.  "I  could  not  imagine  where  they  had  gone," 
she  went  on,  turning  to  the  others.  "  I  left  them  as 
quiet  as  two  little  mice  in  there,"  pointing  to  the 
sitting-room,  "  and  the  moment  my  back  was  turned 
off  they  set." 

"It  is  always  like  that  with  children,"  said  Made- 
moiselle Anna,  the  forewoman.  She  was  a  young 
woman  with  very  black  hair  and  very  black  eyes  and 
a  very  haughty  expression.  No  one  liked  her  much 
in  the  workroom  —  she  was  so  sharp  and  so  unami- 
able.  But  she  was  very  clever  at  making  curtains 
and  covering  chairs  and  sofas,  and  she  had  very  good 
taste,  so  Madame  Neitor,  who  was,  besides,  the  kind- 


84  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

est  woman  in  the  world,  kept  her,  though  she  disliked 
her  temper  and  pride. 

"  Poor  little  things  —  we  have  all  been  children  in 
our  day,"  said  Madame  Nestor. 

"  That  is  possible,"  replied  Mademoiselle  Anna, 
"  but  all  the  same,  there  are  children  and  children. 
I  told  you,  Madame,  and  you  will  see  I  was  right; 
you  do  not  know  the  trouble  you  will  have  with  these 
two  little  foreigners  —  brought  up  who  knows  how  — 
and  a  queer  story  altogether  it  seems  to  me,"  she 
added,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

Gladys  and  Roger  had  drawn  near  Madame  Nestor. 
Gladys  was  truly  sorry  to  see  how  frightened  their 
old  friend  had  been,  and  she  wished  she  knew  how  to 
say  so  to  her.  But  when  Mademoiselle  Anna  went 
on  talking,  throwing  disdainful  glances  in  their  di- 
rection, the  children  shrank  back.  They  could  not 
understand  what  she  was  saying,  but  they  felt  she 
was  talking  of  them,  and  they  had  already  noticed 
her  sharp  unkindly  glances  the  evening  before. 

"  Why  is  she  angry  with  us  ?  "  whispered  Roger. 

But  Gladys  shook  her  head.  "  I  don't  know,"  she 
replied.  "  She  isn't  as  kind  as  Mrs.  Nest  and  her 
son.    Oh  I  do  wish  Papa  would  come  for  us,  Roger !  " 

"  So  do  I,"  said  the  little  fellow. 

But  five  minutes  after,  he  had  forgotten  their 
troubles,  for  Madame  Nestor  took  them  into  the  long 
narrow  room  where  she  and  her  son  and  some  of  their 
workpeople  had  their  meals,  and  established  them  at 
one  end  of  the  table,  to  have  what  she  called  their 
"  breakfast,"  but  what  to  the  children  seemed  their 


AMONG   THE   SOFAS   AND    CHAIRS.  85 

dinner.  She  was  very  kind  to  them,  and  gave  them 
what  she  thought  they  would  like  best  to  eat,  and 
some  things,  especially  an  omelette,  they  found  very 
good.     But  the  meat  they  did  not  care  about. 

"  It's  so  greasy,  I  can't  eat  it,"  said  Gladys,  after 
doing  her  best  for  fear  Madame  Nestor  should  think 
her  rude.  And  Roger,  who  did  not  so  much  mind  the 
greasiness  of  the  gravy,  could  not  eat  it  either  because 
it  was  cooked  with  carrots,  to  which  he  had  a  par- 
ticular dislike.  They  were  not  dainty  children  gen- 
erally, but  the  stuffy  room,  and  the  different  kind  of 
cooking,  and  above  all,  perhaps,  the  want  of  their 
usual  morning  walk,  seemed  to  take  away  their  appe- 
tite. And  the  sight  of  Mademoiselle  Anna's  sharp 
contemptuous  face  across  the  table  did  not  mend 
matters. 

"  I  wish  we  had  some  plain  cold  meat  and  pota- 
toes," said  Gladys,  "like  what  we  had  at  home.  I 
could  even  like  some  nice  plain  bread  and  butter." 

"Not  this  bread,"  said  Roger,  who  was  beginning 
to  look  doleful  again.  "  I  don't  like  the  taste  of  this 
bread." 

So  they  both  sat,  watching  all  that  was  going  on, 
but  eating  nothing  themselves,  till  Madame  Nestor, 
who  had  been  busy  carving,  caught  sight  of  them. 

"  They  do  not  eat,  those  poor  dears,"  she  said  to 
her  son ;  "  I  fear  the  food  is  not  what  they  are  accus- 
tomed to —  but  I  cannot  understand  them  nor  they 
me.  It  is  too  sad!  Can  you  not  try  to  find  out 
what  they  would  like,  Adolphe  ?  You  who  speak 
English  ?  " 


86  TWO   LITTLE    WAIFS. 

Monsieur  Adolphe  got  very  red;  he  was  not 
generally  shy,  but  his  English,  which  he  was  rather 
given  to  boasting  of  when  there  was  no  need  for 
using  it,  seemed  less  ready  than  his  mother  had  ex- 
pected. However,  like  her,  he  was  very  kind-hearted, 
and  the  sight  of  the  two  grave  pale  little  faces 
troubled  him.  He  went  round  to  their  side  of  the 
table. 

"  You  not  eat  ?  "  he  said.  "  Miss  and  Sir  not  eat 
nothing.     Find  not  good  ?  " 

Gladys's  face  brightened.  It  was  something  to 
have  some  one  who  understood  a  little,  however  little. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  said  timidly,  afraid  of  appearing 
uncivil,  "it  is  very  good;  but  we  are  not  hungry. 
We  are  not  accustomed  to  rich  things.  Might  we  —  " 
she  went  on  timidly,  "  do  you  think  we  might  have  a 
little  bread  and  butter  ?  " 

Monsieur  Adolphe  hesitated.  He  found  it  much 
more  difficult  than  he  had  had  any  idea  of  to  under- 
stand what  Gladys  said,  though  she  spoke  very 
plainly  and  clearly. 

"Leetle — leetle?"  he  repeated. 

"  A  little  bread  and  butter,"  said  Gladys  again. 
This  time  he  understood. 

"  Bread  and  butter ;  I  will  go  see,"  he  answered, 
and  then  he  hurried  back  to  his  mother,  still  busy  at 
the  side-table. 

"  They  do  not  seem  accustomed  to  eat  meat,"  he 
said,  "  they  ask  for  bread  and  butter." 

"  The  greedy  little  things !  "  exclaimed  Made- 
moiselle Anna,  who  had  got  up   from   her  seat   on 


AMONG   THE   SOFAS   AND   CHAIRS.  87 

pretence  of  handing  a  plate  to  Madame  Nestor,  but 
in  reality  to  hear  all  that  was  going  on.  "  How  can 
they  be  so  bold?  " 

"  It  is  the  custom  in  England,"  said  the  old  lady. 
"  My  cousin  has  often  told  me  how  the  children  there 
eat  so  much  bread  and  butter.  But  I  have  no  fresh 
butter  in  the  house.  Would  not  preserves  please 
them  ?  Here,  Franchise,"  she  went  on,  calling  to  the 
little  servant.  "  Fetch  some  preserves  from  the  cup- 
board, and  give  some  with  some  bread  to  the  poor 
little  angels." 

"  What  a  to-do  to  be  sure  ! "  muttered  Anna  to 
Adolphe.  "  I  only  hope  your  mother  will  be  paid 
for  the  trouble  she  is  giving  herself,  but  I  much 
doubt  it.  I  believe  it  is  all  a  trick  to  get  rid  of  the 
two  little  plagues.  English  of  the  good  classes  do 
not  leave  their  children  to  anybody's  tender  mercies 
in  that  way  !  " 

"That  is  true,"  said  Adolphe,  who,  though  he  had 
a  good  deal  of  his  mother's  kind-heartedness,  was 
easily  impressed  by  what  Anna  said.  "  And  they 
have  certainly  a  curious  accent.  I  had  difficulty  in 
understanding  them.  I  never  heard  an  accent  like 
it  in  English." 

"  Exactly,"  said  Anna,  tossing  her  head,  "  they  are 
little  cheats  —  no  one  will  come  for  them,  and  no 
money  will  be  sent.  You  will  see  —  and  so  will  your 
mother.  But  it  will  be  too  late.  She  should  have 
thought  twice  before  taking  on  herself  such  a 
charge." 

"  I   am    quite    of     your   opinion,"    said    Adolphe. 


88  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

"  Something  must  be  done ;  my  mother  must  be 
made  to  hear  reason.  If  no  one  comes  to  fetch  them 
in  a  day  or  two  we  must  do  something  —  even  if  I 
have  to  take  them  myself  to  the  English  Embassy." 

"  Quite  right,  quite  right,  Monsieur  Adolphe," 
said  Anna  spitefully. 

But  Madame  Nestor  heard  nothing  of  what  they 
were  saying.  She  was  seated  quite  contentedly 
beside  the  children,  happy  to  see  them  enjoying  the 
bread  and  jam  which  they  much  preferred  to  the 
greasy  meat,  even  though  the  bread  tasted  a  little 
sour,  though  she  could  not  persuade  them  to  take 
any  wine. 

"  It  isn't  good  for  children,"  said  Gladys  gravely, 
looking  up  into  her  face.  But  poor  Madame  Nestor 
shook  her  head. 

"  It  is  no  use,  my  dears,"  she  said  in  her  own  lan- 
guage. "  I  cannot  understand  !  Dear  me  —  I  do 
wish  the  Papa  would  come.  Poor  dear  angels  —  I 
fear  I  cannot  make  them  happy  !  But  at  least  I  can 
wash  up  the  dishes  for  Franchise  and  let  her  take 
them  out  a  walk.  You  will  like  that  —  a  nice  prom- 
enade, will  you  not?" 

Gladys  jumped  up  joyfully. 

"  The  promenade,  Roger  —  we're  going  to  hear  the 
band  play.  Won't  that  be  nice  ?  Come  let  us  go 
quick  and  get  ready." 

Madame  Nestor  was  enchanted. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   KIND-LOOKING   GENTLEMAN. 

"  A  friendly  pleasant  face  he  had, 
They  really  thought  him  very  nice, 
And  when  adown  the  street  he'd  gone 
They  nodded  to  him  twice." 

Chance  Acquaintances. 

They  were  soon  ready,  for  though  Gladys  had  had 
vague  thoughts  of  trying  to  explain  that  she  would 
like  the  big  trunk  unfastened  to  get  out  their  "  best  " 
things,  she  gave  up  the  idea  when  Madame  Nestor 
got  down  the  new  ulsters  which  she  evidently  thought 
quite  good  enough,  and  proceeded  to  wrap  them  both 
up  warmly.  It  was  cold,  she  said,  and  thanks  to  the 
way  she  glanced  out-of-doors  when  she  made  this  re- 
mark, at  the  same  time  carefully  covering  up  their 
throats  with  the  white  silk  handkerchiefs  they  had 
had  for  the  journey,  Gladys  understood  her. 

"We  don't  look  very  nice,  do  we,  Roger?"  said 
the  little  girl,  as  with  her  brother's  hand  in  hers,  and 
Franchise,  who  was  short  and  stout,  and  wore  a  big 
frilled  cap,  following  close  behind.  "If  there  are  a 
lot  of  children  where  the  band  plays  we  shall  seem 
very  plain.  But  I  daresay  it  doesn't  matter,  and 
these  ulsters  are  very  warm." 

For  it  was  very  cold.     It  was  one  of  those  gray 

89 


90  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

sunless  days,  less  uncommon  in  Paris  than  some 
people  imagine,  and  the  Rue  Verte  was  narrow  and 
the  houses  composing  it  very  high,  so  that  stray 
gleams  of  sunshine  did  not  very  easily  get  into  it. 
The  children  shivered  a  little  as  they  stood  for  a 
moment  hesitating  as  to  which  way  Franchise  meant 
them  to  go,  and  one  or  two  foot-passengers  passing 
hurriedly,  as  most  people  do  in  that  busy  part  of  the 
town,  jostled  the  two  little  people  so  that  they  shrank 
back  frightened. 

"  Give  me  your  hands,  little  Sir  and  little  Miss," 
said  the  sturdy  peasant  girl,  catching  hold  of  them, 
placing  one  on  each  side  of  her  as  she  spoke.  It 
went  rather  against  Gladys's  dignity,  but  still  in  her 
heart  she  was  glad  of  Franchise's  protection,  though 
even  with  that  they  were  a  good  deal  bumped  and 
pushed  as  they  made  their  way  along  the  narrow 
pavement. 

"  It  will  be  nicer  when  we  get  to  the  Boulevards," 
said  Franchise ;  "  there  the  pavement  is  so  much 
wider." 

But  Gladys  did  not  understand.  She  thought  the 
girl  said  something  about  bulls  and  large,  and  she 
looked  up  half  frightened,  expecting  to  see  a  troop  of 
cattle  coming  along  the  street.  There  was,  however, 
nothing  of  the  kind  to  be  seen. 

"It's  not  like  Whitebeach,"  said  Gladys,  trying  to 
make  Roger  hear  across  Franchise's  substantial  per- 
son. But  it  was  no  use.  Narrow  as  the  street  was, 
great  heavy  waggons  and  lurries  came  constantly  fol- 
lowing each  other  over  the  stones,  so  that  the  noise 


Oil  don't,  don't  cross  that  Dreadful  Street,"  Gladys  exclaimed.  —  p.  91. 


THE    KIND-LOOKING    GENTLEMAN.  91 

was  really  deafening,  and  it  was  impossible  to  hear 
what  was  said.  By  peeping  sometimes  in  front  of 
Franchise  and  sometimes  behind  her,  Gladys  could 
catch  sight  of  Roger's  little  figure.  He  was  looking 
solemn  and  grave ;  she  could  tell  that  by  the  way 
he  was  walking,  even  when  she  did  not  see  his 
face. 

"  I'm  afraid  he's  very  cold,  poor  little  boy,"  thought 
Gladys  to  herself,  quite  forgetting  her  own  little  red 
nose  and  nipped  fingers  in  concern  for  her  brother. 

It  was  a  little  better  after  a  while  when  they  got 
out  of  the  narrow  street  into  a  much  wider  one.  Too 
wide  Gladys  thought  it,  for  the  rush  of  carts  and 
carriages  and  omnibuses  and  cabs  was  really  frighten- 
ing. She  saw  some  people  venturing  to  cross  over 
to  the  other  side  in  the  midst  of  it  all  —  one  lady 
with  a  little  boy,  not  much  bigger  than  Roger,  espe- 
cially caught  her  attention.  But  she  shut  her  eyes 
rather  than  watch  them  get  across  —  which  they  did 
quite  safely  after  all  —  so  terrified  was  she  of  seeing 
them  crushed  beneath  some  of  the  monsters  on  wheels 
which  seemed  to  the  child's  excited  imagination  to 
be  pounding  down  one  after  the  other  on  purpose  to 
knock  everything  out  of  their  way,  like  some  great 
engines  of  war.  And  she  squeezed  Franchise's  hand 
so  tight  that  the  girl  turned  round  in  a  fright  to  see 
if  any  one  was  hurting  Gladys,  when  a  slight  move- 
ment to  one  side  made  her  fancy  the  little  servant 
was  intending  to  try  to  cross. 

"Oli  don't,  don't  cross  that  dreadful  street," 
Gladys  exclaimed.     And  Franchise  understood  what 


92  TWO    LITTLE   WAIFS. 

she  meant,  thanks  to  her  tugs  the  other  way,  and  set 
to  work  assuring  her  she  had  no  such  intention. 

"  Are  you  frightened  of  crossing  ? "  said  a  voice 
close  beside  her  —  an  English  voice  belonging  to  a 
gentleman  who  had  heard  her  piteous  entreaty. 

"  Yes,  dreadfully.  I'm  sure  we'll  be  killed  if  she 
takes  us  over,"  replied  Gladys,  lifting  her  little  white 
face  and  troubled  eyes  to  the  stranger. 

He  turned  to  Franchise  and  explained  to  her  that 
it  was  hardly  safe  to  attempt  to  cross,  especially  as 
the  little  girl  was  so  frightened.  He  spoke,  of  course, 
in  French,  which  seemed  to  him  as  easy  as  his  own 
language,  and  Franchise  replied  eagerly.  Then  again 
the  stranger  turned  to  Gladys : 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid,  my  dear  little  girl,"  he 
said,  and  his  kind  voice  somehow  made  the  tears 
come  to  her  eyes,  "your  nurse  does  not  wish  to 
cross.  You  have  not  been  long  here,  I  suppose  — 
you  don't  understand  French  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Gladys,  gulping  down  a  sob,  "  we've  — 
we've  only  just  come." 

"  Ah  well,  you'll  soon  feel  more  at  home,  and  be 
able  to  explain  all  you  mean  for  yourself.  Good- 
bye," and  raising  his  hat  as  perhaps  an  altogether 
Englishman  would  not  have  done  to  so  little  a  girl, 
he  smiled  again,  and  in  another  moment  had  disap- 
peared in  the  crowd. 

"  The  nurse  seems  kind  enough,  but  she's  rather 
stupid  —  just  a  peasant.  And  those  children  look  so 
refined.  But  they  don't  seem  happy,  poor  little  souls. 
I  wonder  who  they  can  be,"  said  the  young  man  to 
himself  as  he  walked  away. 


THE   KIND-LOOKING   GENTLEMAN.  93 

"  I  wish  he  was  our  Papa,"  said  Roger. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Gladys.  And  then  a  queer  sort  of 
regret  came  over  her  that  she  had  not  said  more  to 
him.  "  Perhaps  he  knows  Papa,  and  could  have 
helped  us  to  find  him,"  was  the  vague  thought  in  her 
childish  brain.  It  seemed  to  her  that  any  English- 
speaking  person  in  this  great  town  of  Paris  must 
know  "  Papa,"  or  something  about  him. 

Franchise  walked  on ;  she  wished  for  nothing 
better  than  a  stroll  along  the  Boulevards,  even 
though  this  was  by  no  means  the  best  part  of  them, 
or  containing  the  prettiest  shops.  But  Gladys  kept 
wishing  for  the  "promenade"  and  the  band.  At 
the  corner  of  a  side-street  she  caught  sight  of  a 
church  at  a  little  distance  with  some  trees  and  green 
not  far  from  it.  It  looked  quieter  and  less  crowded, 
and  Gladys  was  seized  with  a  wish  to  explore  in  that 
direction. 

She  tugged  at  Franchise. 

"  Mayn't  we  go  up  there  ?  "  she  said,  pointing  in 
the  direction  of  the  trees.  Francoise  understood  her. 
She  was  a  good-natured  girl,  and  turned  with  the 
children  as  Gladys  wished,  though  it  was  against 
her  liking  to  leave  the  noisy  crowded  Boulevards  for 
the  quieter  side-streets. 

When  they  got  close  to  the  trees  they  turned  out 
to  be  in  a  little  enclosure  with  railings,  a  very  small 
attempt  at  a  "square  garden,"  for  there  were  houses 
round  it  on  all  sides,  and,  cold  as  it  was,  a  few  nurses 
and  children  were  walking  about  it  and  looking- 
cheerful  enough,  though  no  doubt  they  wished  they 


94  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

were  not  so  far  away  from  the  prettier  parts  of  Paris 
where  the  parks  and  walks  for  children  are  so  lively 
and  amusing.  Gladys  looked  round  with  a  mixture 
of  approval  and  disappointment. 

"It  must  be  here  that  the  band  plays,"  she  said 
to  Roger  ;  "but  it  isn't  here  to-day.  And  it's  a  very 
small  place  for  a  promenade  ;  not  nearly  so  pretty  as 
it  was  at  Whitebeach.  But  we  might  play  here  if  it 
wasn't  so  cold.  And  there  are  nice  benches  for  sit- 
ting on,  you  see." 

"  I  don't  like  being  here,"  said  Roger,  shaking  his 
head.     "  I'd  like  to  go  home." 

"Home  "  —  again  the  word  fell  sadly  on  the  little 
mother-sister's  ear.  But  she  said  nothing  to  remind 
Roger  of  how  homeless  they  were,  though  she  could 
not  help  sighing  when  she  thought  of  the  only  "  going 
home "  there  was  for  them ;  the  little  dark  bare 
cheerless  bedroom,  and  the  shop  filled  with  sofas  and 
chairs.  Poor  Madame  Nestor  doing  her  best,  but 
understanding  so  little  what  a  nice  bright  cosy 
nursery  was  like,  and  still  worse,  Mademoiselle 
Anna's  sharp  eyes  flashing  angrily  at  them  across 
the  table  at  meat  times  ! 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  have  a  run,  Roger?"  said 
Gladys  suddenly.  "  It  would  make  us  feel  warmer, 
and  there's  a  nice  straight  bit  of  path  here." 

Roger  made  no  objection.  He  let  go  of  Franchise's 
hand  and  took  his  sister's,  and  by  signs  Gladys 
managed  to  explain  to  the  girl  what  they  meant  to  do. 

"  One,  two,  three,  and  away,"  she  called  out  with 
an  attempt  at  merriment,  and  off  they  set.     Roger's 


THE    KIND-LOOKING    GENTLEMAN.  95 

stumpy  little  legs  could  not  go  as  fast  as  Gladys's 
longer  and  thinner  ones,  but  she  took  care  not  to  let 
him  find  that  out,  and  she  was  rewarded  by  the 
colour  in  his  cheeks,  and  the  brighter  look  in  his 
eyes  when  they  got  back  to  Franchise  again. 

"That's  right,"  said  she  good-naturedly,  and  in 
her  heart  I  think  she  too  would  have  enjoyed  a  run, 
had  it  not  been  beneath  her  dignity  to  behave  in  so 
childish  a' manner  "within  sight  of  the  dignified  nurses 
in  their  big  cloaks  and  caps  with  streaming  ribbons, 
who  were  strutting  up  and  down  the  little  enclosure. 

But  it  grew  colder  and  grayer. 

"  One  could  almost  think  it  was  going  to  snow," 
said  Frangoise,  looking  up  at  the  sky.  Gladys  saw 
her  looking  up,"  but  did  not,  of  course,  understand 
her  words. 

"  I  wonder  if  she  thinks  it's  going  to  rain,"  she  said 
to  Roger.  "  Anyway  it's  dreadfully  cold,"  and  she 
gave  a  little  shiver. 

"  We  had  better  go  home,"  said  Frangoise,  for  she 
was  so  accustomed  to  talking  about  everything  she 
did  that  even-  the  knowledge  that  she  was  not  under- 
stood did  not  make  her  silent.  And  taking  a  hand 
of  each  child,  she  turned  to  go.  Gladys  and  Roger 
did  not  mind ;  they  felt  tired,  though  they  had  not 
walked  nearly  so  far  as  they  often  did  at  home,  and 
cold,  and  there  had  been  nothing  in  their  walk  to 
raise  their  poor  little  spirits,  except  perhaps  the 
momentary  glance  of  the  bright-faced  young  English- 
man. 

"  That  gentleman  we  met  looked  very  kind,  didn't 


96  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

he  ?  "  said  Gladys  to  Roger,  when  they  had  got  back 
to  the  Rue  Verte,  and  Franchise  was  helping  them  to 
take  off  their  boots. 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger,  in  his  sober  little  voice,  "  I 
wish —  " 

"What?"  said  Gladys. 

"  I  wish  he  was  our  Papa !  "  said  Roger  again,  with 
a  sigh. 

"  He  couldn't  be,"  said  Gladys,  "  he's  too  young." 

"  He  was  much  bigger  than  you ;  he  was  bigger 
than  Aer,"  persisted  Roger,  pointing  to  Framboise,  for 
like  many  little  children  he  could  not  separate  the 
idea  of  age  from  size,  and  Gladys  knew  it  was  no 
use  trying  to  explain  to  him  his  mistake. 

"  Anyway,  he  isn't  our  Papa,"  she  said  sadly.  "  I 
wonder  what  we  shall  do  now,"'  she  went  on.    ' 

"  Isn't  it  tea-time?  "  asked  Roger. 

"  I'm  afraid  they  don't  have  tea  here,"  said  Gladys. 
"  There's  some  wine  and  water  and  some  bread  on 
the  table  in  the  little  room  behind  the  shop.  I'm 
afraid  that's  meant  for  our  tea." 

She  was  right ;  for  when  Franchise  took  them 
downstairs  Madame  Nestor  immediately  offered  them 
wine  and  water,  and  when  Gladys  did  her  best  to 
make  the  old  lady  understand  that  they  did  not 
like  wine,  she  persisted  in  putting  two  or*  three  lumps 
of  sugar  into  the  water  in  the  glasses,  which  Roger 
did  not  object  to,  as  he  fished  them  out  before  they 
were  more  than  half  melted,  and  ate  instead  of  drink- 
ing them,  but  which  Gladys  thought  very  nasty 
indeed,  though  she  did  not  like  not  to  take  it  as  she 
had  already  refused  the  wine. 


THE   KIND-LOOKING   GENTLEMAN.  97 

"I  wish  I  could  get  out  my  doll,"  said  she,  "I 
don't  know  what  to  play  with,  Roger." 

"  T  wish  I  could  get  my  donkey,"  said  Roger. 
And  Madame  Nestor  saw  that  they  looked  dull  and 
dreary,  though  she  did  not  know  what  they  said. 
A  brilliant  idea  struck  her.  "  I  will  get  them  some 
of  the  packets  of  patterns  to  look  at,"  she  said,  "  that 
will  amuse  them,"  and  off  she  trotted  to  the  work- 
room. 

"  Find  me  the  books  of  patterns,  the  prettiest 
ones,  of  the  silky  stuffs  for  curtains,  and  some  of  the 
cretonnes,"  she  said  to  one  of  the  young  girls  sewing 
there. 

Mademoiselle  Anna  looked  up  suspiciously. 

"  Is  there  some  one  in  the  shop  ? "  she  said. 
"Shall  I  call  Monsieur  Adolphe?  He  has  just  gone 
to  the  other  workroom." 

"No,  no,  do  not  trouble  yourself,"  said  Madame 
Nestor.  "  I  only  want  the  patterns  to  amuse  my 
two  little  birds  in  there,"  and  she  nodded  her  head 
towards  the  room  where  the  children  were. 

Anna  gave  her  head  a  little  toss. 

"  There  is  no  letter  about  them  yet,  I  suppose," 
she  said. 

"Of  course  not.  TIow  could  there  be?"  replied 
the;  old  lady.  "The  poor  things  have  been  here  but 
one  night.  I  do  not  see  why  you  should  trouble 
yourself  to  be  so  cross  about  them.  You  are  not  yet 
mistress  of  this  house,"  upon  which  Anna  murmured 
something  about  being  sorry  to  see  Madame  Nestor 
troubled  about  the  children,  that  was  her  only  reason, 
she  knew  Madame  to  be  so  good,  etc. 


98  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

Madame  Nestor  said  no  more,  for  it  was  seldom 
she  spoke  sharply  to  any  one,  and,  to  tell  the  truth, 
she  was  a  little  afraid  of  Anna,  who  some  time  or 
other  was  to  be  married  to  Adolphe,  and  take  the 
place  of  the  old  lady,  who  looked  forward  then  to 
having  some  rest  in  a  little  home  of  her  own.  She 
did  not  wish  to  quarrel  with  Anna,  for  she  knew  she 
would  make  a  clever  and  useful  wife  to  her  son,  but 
still  unkindness  to  any  one,  above  all  to  these  little 
helpless  strangers,  made  her  really  angry. 

She  made  the  young  workwoman  help  her  to 
carry  the  big  books  of  patterns  to  the  little  sitting- 
room,  and  at  sight  of  them  Gladys  and  Roger  started 
up.  They  were  pleased  at  the  prospect  of  anything 
to  do,  poor  little  things,  even  lessons  would  have 
been  welcome,  and  they  were  greatly  delighted  when, 
as  well  as  the  books,  Madame  Nestor  produced  a 
lot  of  scraps  of  cretonne  with  gay  flowers  and  birds 
in  all  colour,  and  made  them  understand  they  might 
do  as  they  liked  with  them. 

"  Let's  cut  them  out,"  exclaimed  Gladys,  "  we  can 
cut  out  lovely  things  and  then  afterwards  we  can 
paste  them  on  white  paper  and  make  all  sorts  of 
things  with  them." 

But  there  were  no  scissors !  Gladys  opened  and 
shut  the  middle  and  forefingers  of  her  right  hand 
repeating  "scissors,"  till  Madame  Nestor  understood 
and  not  only  lent  her  a  pair  of  her  own,  but  sent  a 
little  way  down  the  street  to  buy  a  little  pair  with 
blunt  ends  for  Roger,  so  afraid  was  she  of  his  cutting 
himself. 


THE   KIND-LOOKING    GENTLEMAN.  99 

"  Oh,  how  nice,"  exclaimed  both  children,  jumping 
np  to  kiss  the  kind  old  woman.  "  Now  we  can  cut 
out  beautifully,  and  when  we  are  tired  of  cutting  out 
we  can  look  at  these  lovely  patterns,"  said  Gladys, 
as  she  settled  herself  and  Roger  comfortably  at  the 
table,  and  Madame  Nestor  went  off  to  the  workroom 
again,  quite  satisfied  about  them  for  the  time. 

"  You  see  there  are  some  things  to  be  got  really 
very  nice  in  Paris,  Roger,"  said  Gladys  in  her  prim 
old-fashioned  way.  "  These  scissors  are  really  very 
nice,  and  I  don't  think  they  were  dear.  Madame 
Nestor  gave  the  boy  a  piece  like  a  small  sixpence, 
and  he  brought  her  a  halfpenny  back.  That  isn't 
dear." 

"What  did  he  bring  her  a  halfpenny  for?  Do 
they  sell  halfpennies  in  the  shops  here  ? "  asked 
Roger,  looking  very  puzzled. 

"No,  of  course  not.  You're  too  little  to  under- 
stand. That's  what  they  call  'giving  change,'"  re- 
plied Gladys,  wisely.  "  Ellen  told  me  that  once 
when  I  went  to  a  shop  with  her  to  buy  something  for 
Miss  Susan.  Now,  Roger,  will  you  cut  out  that  blue 
bird,  and  I'll  do  these  pinky  flowers?  Then  after- 
wards we  can  paste  them  as  if  the  bird  was  flying  out 
of  the  flowers;  won't  that  be  pretty?" 

"  I'd  rather  do  the  flowers,"  said  Roger.  "  The 
bird's  nose  is  so  twisty  —  I  can't  do  it." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Gladys  good-naturedly.  "  Then 
I'll  do  it,  and  you  take  the  flowers.  See  they  go  in 
nice  big  rounds  —  you  can  easily  do  them." 

And   for   an    hour  or   two    the  children  were   as 


100  TWO   LITTLE    WAIFS. 

really  happy  as  they  had  been  for  a  good  while,  and 
when  the  thought  of  their  father  and  what  had  be- 
come of  him  pressed  itself  forward  on  Gladys,  she 
pushed  it  back  with  the  happy  trust  and  hopefulness 
of  children  that  "  to-morrow  "  would  bring  good  news. 

In  a  part  of  Paris,  at  some  distance  from  the  Rue 
Verte,  that  very  afternoon  three  people  were  sitting 
together  in  a  pretty  drawing-room  at  "  afternoon 
tea."  They  were  two  ladies  —  a  young,  quite  young 
one,  and  an  older.  And  the  third  person  was  a 
gentleman,  who  had  just  come  in. 

"  It's  so  nice  to  find  you  at  home,  and  above  all  at 
tea,  Auntie,"  he  said  to  the  elder  lady.  "It  is  such 
a  horrid  day  —  as  bad  as  London,  except  that  there's 
no  fog.     You  haven't  been  out,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed  Ave  have,"  replied  the  young  lady. 
"  We  went  a  long  way  this  morning —  walking —  to 
auntie's  upholsterer,  quite  in  the  centre  of  the  town. 
It  looks  very  grim  and  uninviting  there,  the  streets 
are  so  narrow  and  the  houses  so  high." 

"I've  walked  a  good  way  too  to-day,"  said  the 
young  man. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  my  boy,"  said  his  aunt.  "  I 
have  been  a  little  afraid  of  your  studying  too  hard 
this  winter,  at  least  not  taking  exercise  enough,  and 
you  being  so  accustomed  to  a  country  life  too  !  " 

"I  don't  look  very  bad,  do  I?"  said  the  young  man, 
laughing.  He  stood  up  as  he  spoke,  and  his  aunt 
and  sister  glanced  at  him  with  pride,  though  they 
tried  to  hide  it.     He  was  tall  and  handsome,  and  the 


THE   KIND-LOOKING   GENTLEMAN.  101 

expression  of  his  face  was  particularly  bright  and 
pleasant. 

"  You  are  very  conceited,"  said  his  sister.  "  I  am 
not  going  to  pay  you  any  compliments." 

He  sat  down  again,  and  a  more  serious  look  came 
into  his  face ;  for  some  moments  he  did  not  speak. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about,  Walter  ?  "  asked 
his  sister. 

Walter  looked  up. 

"  I  was  thinking  about  two  little  children  I  met  to- 
day," he  said.     "  Away  over  on  the  Boulevard  X 

ever  so  far." 

"  That  is  not  so  very  far  from  where  we  were  this 
morning,"  interrupted  the  aunt. 

"  They  were  such  tiny  things,  and  they  looked  so 
forlorn  and  so  unhappy  ;  I  can't  get  them  out  of  my 
head,"  said  Walter. 

"Did  you  give  them  anything?  Did  they  seem 
quite  alone?"  asked  Rosamond. 

Walter  laughed. 

"  You  don't  understand,"  he  said ;  "  they  were  not 
beggars.  Bless  me  !  I  shouldn't  like  to  encounter 
that  very  imperious  little  lady  if  she  thought  I  had 
made  you  think  they  were  beggars." 

" '  Imperious  little  lady,'  and  '  poor  forlorn  little 
things;'  what  do  you  mean,  Walter?"  said  Rosa- 
mond. 

"  I  mean  what  I  say.  They  did  look  forlorn  little 
creatures,  and  yet  the  small  girl  was  as  imperious  as 
a  princess.  They  were  two  little  English  children, 
newly  arrived  evidently,  for  they  didn't  understand 


102  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

a  word  of  French.  And  they  were  being  taken  care 
of  by  a  stupid  sort  of  peasant  girl  turned  into  a 
'bonne.'  And  the  little  girl  thought  the  nurse  was 
going  to  cross  the  street,  and  that  she  and  the  small 
boy  would  be  killed,  and  she  couldn't  make  the  stupid 
owl  understand,  and  I  heard  them  talking  English, 
and  so  I  came  to  the  rescue  —  that  was  all." 

"  It  isn't  any  thing  so  very  terrible,"  said  the  aunt. 
"  No  doubt  they  and  their  bonne  will  learn  to  under- 
stand each  other  in  a  little." 

"It  wasn't  that  only,"  said  Walter  reflectively; 
"there  was  something  out  of  gear,  I  am  sure.  The 
children  looked  so  superior  to  the  servant,  and  so  — 
so  out  of  their  element  dragging  up  and  down  that 
rough  crowded  place,  while  she  gaped  at  the  shop 
windows.  And  there  was  something  so  pathetic  in 
the  little  girl's  eyes." 

"  In  spite  of  her  imperiousness,"  said  Rosamond 
teasingly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Walter,  without  smiling.  "  It  was 
queer  altogether  —  the  sending  them  out  in  that  part 
of  the  town  with  that  common  sort  of  servant  —  and 
their  not  knowing  any  French.  I  suppose  the  days 
are  gone  by  for  stealing  children  or  that  sort  of  thing; 
but  I  could  really  have  fancied  there  was  something 
of  the  kind  in  this  case." 

Rosamond  and  her  aunt  grew  grave. 

"  Poor  little  things ! "  they  said.  "  Why  did  }rou  not 
ask  them  who  they  were  or  where  they  came  from,  or 
something?"  added  Rosamond. 

"  I  don't  know.    I  wish  I  had,"  said  Walter.    "  But 


THE   KIND-LOOKING   GENTLEMAN.  103 

I'm  not  sure  that  I  would  have  ventured  on  such  a 
freedom  with  the  little  girl,  I'm  not  indeed." 

"  Then  they  didn't  look  frightened  —  the  maid  did 
not  seem  cross  to  them  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  she  was  good-natured  enough.  Just  a 
great  stupid.  No,  they  didn't  look  exactly  frightened, 
except  of  the  horses  and  carriages ;  but  bewildered 
and  unhappy,  and  out  of  their  element.  And  yet  so 
plucky !  I'm  certain  they  were  well-bred  children. 
I  can't  make  it  out." 

"Nor  can  I,"  said  Rosamond.  "I  wonder  if  we 
shall  ever  hear  any  more  about  them." 

Curiously  enough  she  dreamt  that  night  that  she 
was  again  in  the  furniture  shop  in  the  Rue  Verte,  and 
that  she  heard  again  a  noise  which  she  thought  to  be 
mice,  but  that  pulling  back  a  chair  to  see,  she  came 
upon  two  little  children,  who  at  once  started  to  their 
feet,  crying:  "  We're  the  boy  and  girl  he  met.  Take 
us  home,  do.  We're  not  mice,  and  we  are  so 
unhappy." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

A   FALL   DOWNSTAIRS. 

"  Oh!  what's  the  matter  ?  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

Goody  Blake. 

Some  days  passed ;  they  were  much  the  same  as 
the  first,  except  that  the  children  —  children-like  — 
grew  used  to  a  certain  extent  to  the  things  and  people 
and  manners  and  ways  of  the  life  in  which  they  found 
themselves.  Roger  now  and  then  seemed  pretty 
contented,  almost  as  if  he  were  forgetting  the  strange 
changes  that  had  come  over  them :  so  long  as  every 
one  was  kind  to  him,  and  he  had  Gladys  at  hand 
ready,  so  far  as  was  possible  for  her,  to  attend  to  his 
slightest  wish,  he  did  not  seem  unhappy.  But  on 
the  other  hand,  the  least  cross  word,  or  one  of  Made- 
moiselle Anna's  sharp  looks,  or  even  the  want  of 
things  that  he  liked  to  eat,  would  set  him  off  crying 
in  a  way  he  had  never  done  before,  and  which  nearly 
broke  Gladys's  heart.  For  she,  though  she  seemed 
quiet  and  contented  enough,  was  in  reality  very 
anxious  and  distressed.  She  was  of  an  age  to  under- 
stand that  something  really  serious  must  be  the  mat- 
ter for  her  and  Roger  to  be  left  with  strangers  in 
this  way  —  no  letters  coming,  no  inquiries  of  any 
kind  being  made,  just  as  if  she  and  her  little  brother 
were  forgotten  by  all  the  world !     She  could  write 

104 


A   FALL  DOWNSTAIRS.  105 

a  little,  and  once  or  twice  she  said  to  herself  that  if 
it  went  on  very  long  she  would  try  to  send  a  letter 
to  Miss  Susan  ;  but  then  again,  when  she  remembered 
how  glad  that  young  lady  had  been  to  get  rid  of 
them,  how  she  had  disliked  the  idea  of  their  staying 
with  Mrs.  Lacy  after  her  marriage  —  for  all  this  by 
scraps  of  conversation,  remarks  of  servants,  and  so 
on,  Gladys  had  been  quick  enough  to  find  out  —  she 
felt  as  if  she  would  rather  do  anything,  stay  anywhere, 
rather  than  ask  Miss  Susan  to  take  them  back.  And 
then  from  time  to  time  hope  would  rise  strong  in  her, 
and  she  would  wake  in  the  morning  firmly  convinced 
that  "Papa  would  come  to-day" — hopes,  alas,  only 
to  be  disappointed !  She  was  beginning  to  under- 
stand a  little  of  what  was  said  by  those  about  them. 
Madame  Nestor  was  as  kind  as  ever,  and  her  son,  who 
had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Roger,  was  decidedly 
kinder  than  he  had  been  at  first.  With  them  alone 
Gladys  felt  she  would  not  have  minded  anything  so 
much ;  but  she  could  see  that  Anna's  dislike  to  them 
increased,  and  the  child  dreaded  the  hours  of  the 
meals,  from  the  feeling  of  the  hard  scornful  looks 
that  Anna  was  then  sure  to  cast  on  her. 

One  day  she  overheard  some  talking  between  her 
and  Madame  Nestor.  The  young  woman  seemed 
angry,  and  the  old  one  was  remonstrating  with  her. 
Gladys  heard  that  they  were  speaking  about  money, 
and  also  about  some  one  going  away,  but  that  was 
all  she  could  make  out,  though  they  were  talking 
quite  loud,  and  did  not  seem  to  mind  her  being  there. 

"  If  only  Anna  was  going  away,"  thought  Gladys, 


106  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  anything.  I  wouldn't  mind  the 
not  having  baths,  or  tea,  or  bread  and  butter,  or  — ■  or 
all  the  things  we  had  at  home,  if  only  there  was 
nobody  to  look  so  fierce  at  us.  I'd  almost  rather 
be  Madame  Nestor's  little  servant,  like  Franchise,  if 
only  Anna  would  go  away." 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  her  wishes  had  been  over- 
heard by  some  fairy,  for  the  next  morning,  when 
they  were  called  to  the  second  breakfast  —  which  the 
children  counted  their  dinner  —  Anna's  place  was 
empty!  Gladys  squeezed  Roger's  hand  under  the 
table,  and  whispered  to  him:  "She's  gone,  I  do 
believe  she's  gone."  Then  looking  up  at  Madame 
Nestor  she  saw  her  kind  old  face  looking  decidedly 
jollier  than  usual. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  nodding  her  head ;  "  Anna  is 
away.     She  has  gone  away  for  a  few  days." 

Gladys  understood  her  partly  but  not  altogether, 
but  she  did  not  mind.  She  was  only  too  pleased  to 
find  it  true,  and  that  was  the  happiest  day  they  had 
since  they  came  to  the  Rue  Verte.  Madame  Nestor 
sent  out  to  the  pastry-cook's  near  by  for  some  nice 
little  cakes  of  a  kind  the  children  had  never  tasted 
before,  and  which  they  found  delicious,  and  Monsieur 
Adolphe  said  he  would  get  them  some  roasted  chest- 
nuts to  eat  if  they  liked  them.  He  found  the  words 
in  a  dictionary  which  he  showed  Gladys  with  great 
pride,  and  pointed  them  out  to  her,  and  was  quite 
delighted  when  she  told  him  how  to  pronounce  them, 
and  added :   "  I  like  roast  chestnuts  very  much." 

"  Mademoiselle  shall  give  me  some  lessons  of  Eng- 


A   FALL  DOWNSTAIRS.  107 

lish,"  he  said  to  his  mother,  his  round  face  beaming 
with  pleasure.  "  You  are  quite  right,  they  are  little 
gentlepeople,  there  is  no  doubt  of  it;  and  I  feel  sure 
the  Papa  will  come  to  fetch  them  in  a  few  daj^s.  He 
will  be  very  grateful  to  us  for  having  taken  such  care 
of  them  —  it  maybe  a  good  thing  in  the  end  even 
from  a  business  point  of  view,  for  I  should  have  no 
objection  to  extend  our  English  connection." 

No  thought  of  gain  to  themselves  in  any  way  had 
entered  Madame  Nestor's  head ;  but  she  was  too 
pleased  to  see  her  son  in  such  a  good  humour  about 
the  children  to  say  anything  to  disagree  with  him. 

"  He  has  a  good  heart,  my  Adolphe,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "  It  is  only  Anna  that  makes  him  seem  what 
he  is  not ;  if  she  would  but  stay  away  altogether ! 
And  yet,  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  her  equal  in 
other  ways." 

"  Speaking  of  English,"  she  said  aloud,  "  reminds 
me  that  those  English  ladies  will  be  getting  impa- 
tient for  their  curtains.  And  the  trimming  has  not 
yet  come  ;  how  slow  those  makers  are  !  It  is  a  fort- 
night since  they  promised  it  for  the  end  of  the  week." 

"It  does  not  matter  much,"  said  Adolphe,  "for  no 
one  can  make  them  up  properly  except  Anna.  She 
should  not  have  gone  away  just  now;  she  knows  there 
are  several  things  that  require  her." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Madame  Nestor,  and  so  it  was. 
Mademoiselle  Anna  seemed  purposely  to  have  chosen 
a  most  inconvenient  time  for  going  off  on  a  visit  to 
her  family,  and  when  Madame  Nestor  reproached  her 
for  this  she  had  replied  that  with  all  the  money  the 


108  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

Nestors  had  received  for  the  two  little  strangers,  they 
cotild  well  afford  to  engage  for  the  time  a  first-rate 
workwoman  to  replace  her.  This  was  the  conversa- 
tion Gladys  had  heard  and  a  little  understood.  Poor 
Madame  Nestor,  wishing  to  keep  up  the  children's 
dignity,  had  told  every  one  that  Mr.  Marton  had  left 
her  plenty  of  money  for  them,  making  the  most  of 
the  two  or  three  pounds  which  was  all  he  had  been 
able  to  spare,  and  of  which  she  had  not  as  yet  touched 
a  farthing. 

But  whether  Anna's  absence  was  inc6nvenient  or 
not,  it  was  very  pleasant  to  most  people  concerned. 
Adolphe  himself  took  the  children  out  a  walk,  and 
though  Gladys  was  at  first  not  quite  sure  that  it  was 
not  a  little  beneath  her  dignity  to  let  the  young  man 
be  her  "  chaperon,"  she  ended  by  enjoying  it  very 
much.  Thanks  to  his  broken  English  and  the  few 
French  words  she  was  now  beginning  to  understand, 
they  got  on  very  well ;  and  when  he  had  taken  them 
some  way  out  of  Paris  —  or  out  of  the  centre  of  the 
town  rather  — •  in  an  omnibus,  she  was  obliged  to  own 
that  it  was  by  no  means  the  gray,  grim,  crowded, 
noisy,  stuffy  place  it  had  seemed  to  her  those  first 
days  in  the  Rue  Verte.  Poor  little  Roger  was  de- 
lighted !  The  carriages  and  horses  were  to  him  the 
most  beautiful  sight  the  world  could  show;  and  as 
they  walked  home  down  the  Champs  Elyse"es  it  was 
quite  difficult  to  get  him  along,  he  wanted  so  con- 
stantly to  stand  still  and  stare  about  him. 

"  How  glad  I  am  we  had  on  our  best  things  !  "  said 
Gladys,  as  she  hung  up  her  dark-blue  braided  serge 


A   FALL   DOWNSTAIRS.  109 

jacket  and  dress  —  for  long  ago  Madame  Nestor  had 
been  obliged  to  open  the  big  trunk  to  get  out  a  change 
of  attire  for  the  children  —  "aren't  you,  Roger?" 
She  smoothed  down  the  scarlet  breast  on  her  little 
black  felt  hat  as  she  spoke.  "  This  hat  is  very  neat, 
and  so  is  my  dress ;  but  still  they  are  very  plain  com- 
pared to  the  things  all  the  children  that  we  saw  had 
on.  Did  you  see  that  little  girl  in  green  velvet  with 
a  sort  of  very  soft  fur,  like  shaded  gray  fluff,  all 
round  it  ?  And  another  one  in  a  red  silky  dress,  all 
trimmed  with  lace,  and  a  white  feather  as-  long  —  as 
long  as  —  " 

"Was  it  in  that  pretty  big  wide  street?"  asked 
Roger.  "  I  saw  a  little  boy  like  me  with  a  'plendid 
coat  all  over  gold  buttons." 

"  That  was  a  little  page,  not  a  gentleman,"  said 
Gladys,  rather  contemptuously.  "  Don't  you  remem: 
ber  Mrs.  Ffolliot's  page  ?  Only  perhaps  he  hadn't  so 
many  buttons.  I'd  like  to  go  a  walk  there  every  day, 
wouldn't  you?" 

But  their  conversation  was  interrupted  by  Madame 
Nestor's  calling  them  down  to  have  a  little  roll  and 
a  glass  of  milk,  which  she  had  discovered  they  liked 
much  better  than  wine  and  water. 

"If  only  there  would  come  a  letter,  or  if  Papa 
would  come  —  oh,  if  Papa  would  but  come  before 
that  Anna  comes  back  again,  everything  would  get 
all  right !  I  do  hope  when  lie  does  come  that  Papa 
will  let  me  give  a  nice  present  to  Mrs.  Nest," 
thought  Gladys  to  herself  as  she  was  falling  asleep 
that  night. 


110  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

The  next  day  was  so  bright  and  fine,  that  when 
the  children  saw  Monsieur  Adolphe  putting  on  his 
coat  to  go  out  early  in  the  morning  they  both  wished 
they  might  go  with  him,  and  they  told  him  so.  He 
smiled,  but  told  them  in  his  funny  English  that  it 
could  not  be.  He  was  going  out  in  a  hurry,  and 
only  about  business  —  some  orders  he  was  going  to 
get  from  the  English  ladies. 

"  English  ladies,"  repeated  Gladys. 

"  Yes ;  have  you  not  seen  them  ?  They  were  here 
one  day." 

"We  saw  them,"  said  Gladys,  smiling,  "  but  they 
did  not  see  us.  They  thought  we  were  mice,"  but 
the  dictionary  had  to  be  fetched  before  Adolphe  could 
make  out  what  "  mice  "  meant,  even  though  Roger 
turned  it  into  "  mouses  "  to  make  it  plainer.  And 
then  he  had  to  hurry  off  —  it  was  a  long  way,  he  said, 
in  the  Avenue  Gerard,  close  to  the  Champs  Elysees, 
that  those  ladies  lived. 

"Avenue  Gerard,"  repeated  Gladys,  in  the  idle 
way  children  sometimes  catch  up  a  name ;  "  that's 
not  hard  to  say.  We  say  avenue  in  English  too.  It 
means  a  road  with  lots  of  trees.  Are  there  lots  of 
trees  where  those  ladies  live,  Mr.  'Dolph?" 

But  "  Mr.  'Dolph  "  had  departed. 

After  these  bright  days  came  again  some  dreary 
autumn  weather.  The  children  "  wearied,"  as  Scotch 
people  say,  a  good  deal.  They  were  even  glad  on  the 
fourth  day  to  be  sent  out  a  short  walk  with  Franchise. 

"I  wonder  if  we  shall  see  that  nice  gentleman 
again  if  we  go  up  that  big  street?  "  said  Roger. 


A   FALL   DOWNSTAIRS.  Ill 

"  I  don't  think  we  shall,"  said  Gladys.  "  Most 
likely  he  doesn't  live  there.  And  it's  a  great  many 
days  ago.     Perhaps  he's  gone  back  to  England.'' 

It  was  indeed  by  this  time  nearly  a  fortnight  that 
the  little  waifs  had  found  refuge  in  the  Rue  Verte. 

The  walk  turned  out  less  disagreeable  than  their 
first  one  with  Francoise.  They  did  go  up  the  Boule- 
vard, where  the  servant  had  some  commissions,  but 
they  did  not  meet  the  "  nice  gentleman."  They  came 
home,  however,  in  very  good  spirits ;  for  at  the  big- 
grocer's  shop,  where  Franchise  had  bought  several 
things,  one  of  the  head  men  had  given  them  each  an 
orange.  And  chattering  together  about  how  they 
should  eat  them  —  whether  it  was  nicest  to  suck 
them,  or  to  cut  them  with  a  knife,  or  to  peel  them 
and  divide  them  into  what  are  familiarly  called 
"pigs,"  —  the  two  children,  with  Franchise  just  be- 
hind them,  reached  the  shop  in  the  Rue  Verte. 

The  door  stood  open  —  that  was  a  little  unusual, 
but  they  did  not  stay  to  wonder  at  it,  but  ran  in 
quickly,  eager  to  show  their  oranges  to  their  kind 
old  friend.  The  door  leading  to  the  room  behind  the 
shop  stood  open  also,  and  the  children  stopped  short, 
for  the  room  was  full  of  people,  all  talking  eagerly 
and  seemingly  much  excited.  There  were  all  the 
workpeople  and  one  or  two  neighbours,  but  neither 
Madame  Nestor  nor  her  son.  Framboise,  who  had 
caught  sight  of  the  crowd  and  already  overheard 
something  of  what  they  were  saying,  hurried  for- 
ward, telling  the  children  as  she  passed  them  to  stay 
where  they  were,  and  frightened  of  they  knew  not 


112  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

what,  the  two  little  creatures  took  refuge  in  their  old 
corner  behind  the  blue  sofa. 

"  What  can  it  be  ?  "  said  Gladys. 

"  P'raps  Papa's  come,"  suggested  Roger. 

Gladys's  heart  gave  a  great  leap,  and  she  sprang 
up,  glancing  in  the  direction  of  the  little  crowd  of 
people.     But  she  quickly  crouched  down  again. 

"  Oh  no,"  she  said.  "  It  can't  be  that.  Franchise 
would  not  have  told  us  to  stay  here.  I'm  afraid 
somebody's  ill.     It  seems  more  like  that." 

Her  instinct  was  right.  By  degrees  the  talking 
subsided,  and  one  or  two  of  the  workpeople  went  off 
to  their  business,  and  a  moment  or  two  after,  when 
Adolphe  Nestor  suddenly  made  his  appearance,  there 
was  a  general  hush,  broken  only  by  one  or  two  voices 
inquiring  "  how  she  was." 

"  Do  you  hear  that,  Roger  ? "  whispered  Gladys, 
nudging  her  brother;  "they're  asking  how  she  is. 
That  means  Mrs.  Nest,  I'm  sure.     She  must  be  ill." 

Roger  said  nothing,  but  listened  solemnly. 

"  Her  was  quite  well  when  us  went  out,"  he  ob- 
served, after  a  considerable  pause. 

"  Yes,  but  sometimes  people  get  ill  all  of  a  sudden," 
said  Gladys.  Then,  after  a  moment,  "  Roger,"  she 
said,  "  I  think  I'll  go  and  ask.  I  shall  be  so  unhappy 
if  poor  Mrs.  Nest  is  ill." 

"  So  will  I,"  said  Roger. 

They  got  up  from  the  floor,  and  hand  in  hand 
crept  timidly  towards  the  door.  Franchise  was  still 
standing  there,  listening  to  Adolphe,  who  was  talk- 
ing to  the  two  or  three  still  standing  there.     Fran- 


A   FALL   DOWNSTAIRS.  113 

goise  turned  at  the  sound  of  the  children's  footsteps, 
and  raised  a  warning  finger.  But  Gladys  pat  her 
aside,  with  what  "  Walter "  would  have  called  her 
imperious  air. 

"  Let  us  pass,"  she  said.  "  I  want  to  speak  to  Mr. 
'Dolph." 

The  young  man  heard  the  sound  of  his  own  name. 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  said  quickly,  in  French. 

"  I  want  to  know  what's  the  matter.  Is  Mrs.  Nest 
ill  ? "  asked  Gladys.  But  she  had  to  repeat  her 
question  two  or  three  times  before  Adolphe  under- 
stood it.  He  was  flurried  and  distressed  —  indeed, 
his  eyes  looked  as  if  he  had  been  crying  —  and  that 
made  it  more  difficult  for  him  to  catch  the  meaning 
of  the  child's  words.     But  at  last  he  did  so. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Yes,  there  is  much  the 
matter.  My  poor  mother — she  has  fallen  downstairs 
and  broken  her  leg." 

Gladys  clasped  her  two  hands  together. 

"  Broken  her  leg,"  she  repeated.  "  Oh,  poor  Mrs. 
Nest !     Oh,  it  must  hurt  her  dreadfully." 

At  this  Roger  burst  out  crying.  Adolphe  turned 
round,  and  picked  him  up  in  his  arms. 

"  Poor  little  fellow,"  he  said,  "  yes,  he,  too,  is  very 
sorry.  What  we  are  to  do  I  know  not.  Anna  away, 
too.  I  hope  you  will  be  very  good  and  quiet  chil- 
dren. Framboise,  too,  will  be  so  busy  —  you  will  do 
all  you  can  to  give  no  trouble,  will  you  not?  I  wish 
we  had  news  of  the  Papa ! "  he  added,  as  he  turned 
away. 

He  did  not  speak  at  all  unkindly,  but  he  seemed 


114  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

very  much  troubled,  and  with  his  broken  English 
it  was  very  difficult  for  Gladys  to  follow  all  he  said. 

"May  I  go  and  see  poor  Mrs.  Nest?"  she  said 
timidly. 

"  No,  no ;  you  cannot  see  her  for  a  long  time," 
replied  Adolphe  hastily,  as  he  left  the  room. 

"  I  must  send  a  telegram  to  Mademoiselle  Anna," 
he  added  to  Franchise,  and  unfortunately  for  her 
peace  of  mind,  Gladys  understood  him.  She  turned 
away,  her  lips  quivering. 

"  Come  upstairs,  dear,"  she  said  to  her  little 
brother.  "  Come  to  our  room  and  I  will  take  off 
your  things." 

Roger  followed  her  obediently.  Francoise  had 
disappeared  into  the  kitchen,  where  more  than  ever 
she  was  needed,  as  there  was  no  one  else  to  see  about 
the  dinner — so  the  two  little  things  climbed  upstairs 
by  themselves.  It  was  already  growing  dusk — the 
dull  little  room  looked  cheerless,  and  felt  chilly. 
Roger  looked  up  into  Gladys's  eyes  as  she  was  un- 
fastening his  coat. 

"  Are  you  crying,  Gladdie  ?  "  he  said,  in  his  little 
soft  sad  tone. 

Gladys  turned  away  a  moment  to  wipe  her  eyes. 
If  she  had  not  done  so  she  would  probably  have 
burst  into  a  terrible  fit  of  tears,  for  never  had  she 
felt  so  miserable  and  desolate.  Her  pride,  too,  was 
aroused,  for  she  saw  most  plainly  that  she  and  Roger 
were  more  than  ever  a  sad  burden  and  trouble.  But 
what  could  she  do?  What  could  any  little  girl  of 
seven  years  old  have  done  in  such  a  case  ? 


A   FALL   DOWNSTAIRS.  115 

The  sight  of  Roger's  meek  sad  face  gave  her  a 
kind  of  strength.  For  his  sake  she  must  keep  up 
anyway  the  appearance  of  cheerfulness.  So  she 
kissed  him,  and  answered  quietly : 

1,4 1  am  very  sorry  for  poor  Mrs.  Nest.  She  has 
been  so  kind  to  us." 

"Yes,"  said  Roger.  Then  a  bright  idea  struck 
him.  k>  111  say  my  prayers  for  her  to  be  made  better 
to-night.     Will  you,  Gladdie  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Gladys,  and  there  was  comfort  in  the 
thought  to  her,  for  it  brought  with  it  another.  "  I'll 
ask  God  to  help  us"  she  thought  to  herself,  "k  and 
when  I  go  to  bed  I'll  think  and  think,  and  perhaps 
Hell  put  something  in  my  head.  Perhaps  I  must 
try  to  write  to  Miss  Susan." 

The  loss  of  Madame  Nestor's  constant  kindness 
was  quickly  felt.  No  one  came  near  the  children, 
and  when  Gladys  crept  downstairs  there  was  no 
light  in  the  little  sitting-room  —  no  glasses  of  milk 
and  plate  of  rolls  waiting  for  them  on  the  table,  as 
had  become  a  habit.  And  Roger  was  cold  and  hun- 
gry !  He  had  asked  Gladys  to  go  down  and  look  if 
there  was  any  "gouter,"  as  they  had  learnt  to  call 
this  afternoon  luncheon,  and  when  she  came  up  again 
and  told  him  "  no,"  the  poor  little  fellow,  frightened, 
and  cold,  and  hungry,  burst  into  loud  sobbing. 
Gladys  was  so  afraid  it  would  be  heard,  and  that 
they  would  be  scolded  for  disturbing  Madame  Nestor, 
that  she  persuaded  Roger  to  get  into  bed,  where  she 
covered  him  up  warmly,  and  promised  to  tell  him  a 
story  if  he  would  leave  off  crying. 


116  TWO   LITTLE    WAIFS. 

It  was  not  easy  to  keep  her  promise  —  she  felt  so 
on  the  point  of  bursting  into  tears  herself  that  she 
had  to  stop  every  now  and  then  to  clear  her  throat, 
and  she  was  not  sorry  when,  on  one  of  these  occa- 
sions, instead  of  Roger's  shrill  little  voice  urging  her 
to  "go  oil  What  do  you  stop  for,  Gladdie?"  she 
heard  by  his  regular  breathing  that  he  had  fallen 
asleep.  She  had  no  light,  but  she  felt  about  to  be 
sure  he  was  well  covered,  and  then,  leaning  her  head 
on  the  side  of  his  bed,  she  tried  to  "  think." 

"I  would  not  mind  anything  so  much  if  Anna 
was  not  coming  back,",  she  said  to  herself.  "  But  if 
she  is  here,  and  poor  Mrs.  Nest  shut  up  in  her  room, 
she  can  do  anything  she  likes  to  us,  for  Mr.  'Dolph 
wouldn't  know ;  and  if  I  told  him  he'd  think  I  was 
very  naughty  to  bother  him  when  his  mother  was  ill. 
I  think  I  must  write  to  Miss  Susan  —  at  least,  if 
Anna  is  vert/ unkind,  I  will  —  unless — unless — oh, 
if  it  would  but  happen  for  Papa  to  come  to-morrow, 
or  a  letter  !  I'll  wait  till  to-morrow  and  see  —  and 
perhaps  Anna  won't  come  back,  not  —  not  if  Papa's 
in  the  train  —  she'd  run  away  if  she  saw  him,  if  he 
had  Mrs.  Nest's  cap  on,  she'd" — and  that  was  all. 
for  before  Gladys  had  settled  what  she  would  do,  she 
too,  as  you  see,  had  fallen  asleep. 

She  slept  some  time — an  hour  or  two — and  she 
awoke,  feeling  cold  and  stiff,  though  what  had 
awakened  her  she  did  not  at  first  know,  till  again, 
brineting  with  it  the  remembrance  of  having  heard  it 
before,  the  sound  of  a  voice  calling  her  reached  her 
ears. 


A    FALL    DOWNSTAIRS.  117 

"Mademoiselle  —  Mademoiselle  Gladees,"  it  said, 
"why  do  )*ou  not  come?  The  dinner  is  all  ready, 
and  I  have  called  yon  so  many  times.''  It  was 
Francoise,  tumbling  up  the  narrow  stair  in  the  dark. 
Gladys  heard  her  fumbling  at  the  door,  and  called 
out  "  Franchise ! "  Then  Roger  woke  and  started  up, 
trembling.  "  What  is  it  —  what  is  the  matter,  Glad- 
die?'1  he  cried,  and  Gladys  had  to  soothe  and  pet 
him,  and  say  it  was  only  Francoise  ;  and  Francoise  in 
the  meantime  had  got  into  the  room,  exclaiming  at 
their  having  no  light,  and  pulling  a  box  of  matches 
from  her  pocket,  struck  one,  and  hunted  about  till 
she  found  a  bit  of  candle. 

It  was  a  rather  melancholy  scene  that  the  end  of 
candle  lighted  up. 

"  So  — you  have  been  asleep  !  "  exclaimed  the  ser- 
vant ;  "  well,  perhaps  it  was  the  best  thing.  Well, 
come  down  now,  Monsieur  Adolphe  is  asking  for 
}Tou,"  and  she  would  scarcely  let  them  wait  to  dip 
their  hands  in  water  and  smooth  their  tumbled  hair. 

"  What  will  become  of  them  when  she  comes  back 
and  poor  Madame  ill  in  bed,  who  can  say  ? "  the 
peasant  girl  muttered  to  herself  as  she  led  them 
downstairs.  "  I  wish  their  friends  would  come  to 
fetch  them  —  I  do.  It's  certainly  very  strange  for 
rich  people  to  leave  their  children  like  that,"  and 
Franchise  shook  her  head. 

Monsieur  Adolphe  received  the  children  kindly. 
lie  had  been  a  little  alarmed  when  Francoise  had  told 
him  she  could  not  find  them  in  the  sitting-room,  for 
he  knew  it  would  trouble  his  poor  mother  greatly  if 


118  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

she  found  her  little  favourites  were  neglected,  for  the 
thought  of  them  was  one  of  the  things  most  troub- 
ling  the  poor  woman  in  the  middle  of  her  suffering. 

"  If  hut  the  Papa  would  come  for  them,"  she  had 
already  said  to  her  son.  "  I  know  not  what  to  do.. 
I  think  we  must  ask  some  advice.  Anna  dislikes 
them  so  ;  and  if  she  comes  back  to-morrow  —  " 

"  She  may  not  come  till  the  day  after,"  said 
Adolphe.  "  Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  anything 
just  now.  The  children  are  all  right  for  the 
moment." 

"  And  you  will  be  kind  to  them  at  dinner,  and 
give  them  nice  pieces.  They  do  not  eat  much,  but 
they  are  used  to  more  delicate  cooking  than  ours." 

"  Reassure  yourself.  I  will  do  all  as  you  would 
yourself.  And  if  you  keep  quiet,  my  good  Mamma, 
perhaps  in  a  day  or  two  you  can  see  them  for  your- 
self. The  great  thing  is  to  keep  quiet,  and  that  will 
keep  down  the  fever,  the  doctor  says,"  repeated  poor 
Adolphe,  who  was  really  a  good  and  affectionate 
son. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  thought  poor  Madame  Nestor,  "  that 
is  all  very  well,  but  at  my  age,"  for  she  was  really 
old  —  old  to  be  the  mother  of  Adolphe,  having 
married  late  in  life,  "  at  my  age  one  does  not  break 
one's  leg  for  nothing.  But  the  good  God  knows 
best.  If  my  time  has  come,  so  be  it.  I  have  no  great 
anxiety  to  leave  behind  me,  like  some  poor  women, 
thank  Heaven !     Only  these  poor  children  !  " 

And  thanks  to  what  Madame  Nestor  had  said,  and 
thanks  in  part,  too,    to    his  kind  feelings,    Adolphe 


A   FALL   DOWNSTAIRS.  119 

was  very  friendly  to  the  children  at  dinner ;  and  in 
reply  to  their  timid  inquiries  about  his  mother,  told 
them  that  the  doctor  thought  she  was  going  on  well, 
and  in  a  day  or  two  they  might  see  her,  if  they  were 
very  good  and  quiet.  So  the  meal  passed  off  peace- 
fully. 

"  After  all,"  thought  Adolphe,  "  they  do  not  cost 
one  much.  They  eat  like  sparrows.  Still  it  is  a 
great  responsibility  —  poor  little  things  !  " 

He  took  Roger  in  his  arms  and  kissed  him  when 
he  said  good-night,  and  Gladys  would  have  gone  to 
bed  feeling  rather  less  unhappy,  for  Franchise  put  in 
her  head  to  say  she  would  come  in  half  an  hour  to 
help  to  undress  "  Monsieur  Roger,"  but  for  some 
words  she  overheard  among  some  of  the  young  work- 
women, which  she  understood  only  too  well — that 
Mademoiselle  Anna  was  returning  the  next  morn- 
ing! 

"  I  must  write  to  Miss  Susan,"  thought  the  little 
girl,  as  she  at  last  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

FROM   BAD   TO   WORSE. 

"  Their  hearts  were  laden 
With  sorrow,  surprise,  and  fear." 

Princess  Bopeep. 

Nobody  came  to  wake  the  children  the  next  morn- 
ing. They  slept  later  than  usual,  and  when  Gladys 
woke  it  was  already  as  light  as  ever  it  was  in  the  dull 
little  room.  But  it  was  very  cold  —  the  weather  had 
turned  to  frost  in  the  night,  which  made  the  air 
clearer  and  brighter,  and  in  their  own  warm  rooms  at 
Mrs.  Lacy's  the  children  would  have  rejoiced  at  the 
change.     Here  it  was  very  different. 

Gladys  lay  waiting  some  time,  wondering  if  no 
one  was  coming  with  their  chocolate  and  bread,  for- 
getting at  first  all  that  had  happened  the  day  before. 
By  degrees  it  came  back  to  her  mind,  and  then  she 
was  no  longer  surprised  at  their  being  left  alone. 

"  Anna  has  come  back,"  she  thought  to  herself, 
"and  she  won't  let  them  bring  us  our  breakfast." 

She  got  out  of  bed,  glad  to  see  that  Roger  was  still 
sleeping,  and  crossed  the  room,  the  cold  wooden  floor 
striking  chill  to  her  bare  feet.  She  reached  the  door 
and  opened  it,  peering  down  the  narrow  dark  staircase. 

"  Francoise,"  she  called  softly,  for  the  kitchen  was 
nearer  than   the   workroom,  and  she  hoped  perhaps 

120 


FKOM  BAD   TO   WORSE.  121 

Francoise  would  come  to  her  without  Anna  knowing. 
But  no  one  answered.  She  heard  voices  in  the  dis- 
tance—  in  the  kitchen  they  seemed  to  be — and  soon 
she  fancied  that  she  distinguished  the  sharp  tones 
of  Mademoiselle  Anna,  ordering  about  the  poor  little 
cook.  Gladys  quickly  but  softly  shut  the  door  and 
crossed  the  room  again  on  tiptoes.  She  stood  for  a 
moment  or  two  hesitating  what  to  do.  It  was  so 
cold  that  she  felt  half  inclined  to  curl  herself  up  in 
bed  again  and  try  to  go  to  sleep !  But  if  Roger 
woke,  as  he  was  sure  to  do  soon  —  no,  the  best  thing 
was  for  her  to  get  dressed  as  quickly  as  possible. 
She  bravely  sponged  herself  as  well  as  she  could 
with  the  cold  water,  which  was  now  always  left  in 
the  room  in  a  little  jug;  "no  chance  of  any  hot  water 
to-day!"  she  thought  to  herself  as  she  remembered 
how  unhappy  she  had  been  that  first  morning  at  not 
having  a  bath,  and  then  went  on  to  dress,  though 
not  without  a  good  deal  of  difficulty,  as  several  of 
her  little  under-garments  fastened  behind.  Not  till 
the  last  button  was  secured  did  Roger  wake. 

"  Gladdie,"  he  said  in  a  sleepy  tone,  "  are  you 
dressed?     We  haven't  had  our  chocolate,  Gladdie." 

"  Never  mind,  Roger  dear,"  said  Gladys.  "  They're 
all  very  busy  to-day,  you  know,  so  I've  got  up  and 
dressed  quickly,  and  now  I'll  go  down  and  bring  up 
your  breakfast.     Unless  you'd  rather  get  up  first?" 

Roger  considered.  lie  was  in  rather  a  lazy  mood, 
which  was  perhaps  just  as  well. 

"No,"  he  decided.  "I'll  have  my  breakfast  first. 
And  you  can  eat  yours  beside  me,  can't  you,  Gladdie?" 


122 


TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 


"  Yes,"  said  Gladys,  «  that  will  be  very  nice." 

She  spoke  with  a  cheerfulness  she  was  far  from 
feeling,  for  in  her  heart  she  felt  by  no  means  sure  of 
getting  any  breakfast  at  all.  But  just  as  she  was 
turning  to  go  a  slight  knocking  was  heard  at  the 
door.  It  was  more  like  a  scratching  indeed,  as  if  the 
person  were  afraid  of  being  heard  outside  as  well  as 
by  those  in  the  room. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  came  in  a  loud  whisper  after  the 
queer  rapping  had  gone  on  for  some  time,  "  are  you 
awake  ?     Open  —  I  have  the  hands  full." 

It  was  Franchise.  Gladys  opened.  The  little 
servant,  her  round  red  face  rounder  and  redder  than 
usual,  for  she  had  been  all  the  morning  at  the 
kitchen  fire,  and  had  besides  been  passing  through 
unusual  excitement,  stumped  into  the  room,  a  bowl, 
from  which  the  steam  of  some  hot  liquid  was  rising, 
in  one  hand,  and  a  plate  with  a  large  hunch  of  bread 
in  the  other. 

She  put  them  down  on  the  little  table  and  wiped 
her  hot  face  with  her  apron. 

"  Ah,  Mademoiselle,"  she  said,  "  no  one  would 
believe  it  —  the  trouble  I  have  had  to  get  some 
breakfast  for  you  !  She  would  not  have  it  —  lazy 
little  creatures,  she  called  you  —  you  might  come 
down  and  get  it  for  yourselves  —  a  piece  of  dry  bread 
and  some  dripping  soup  —  that  was  all  she  would 
have  given  you,  and  I  know  you  are  not  used  to  that. 
So  what  did  I  do  but  wait  till  her  back  was  turned  — 
the  cross  cat  —  and  then  in  with  the  milk  and  a  tiny 
bit  of  chocolate  —  all  I  could  find,  and  here  it  is ! 
Hot,  at  any  rate ;  but  not  very  good,  I  fear." 


FROM  BAD   TO   WORSE.  123 

Gladys  did  not,  of  course,  understand  a  quarter  of 
the  words  which  Franchise  rattled  off  in  her  queer 
Norman-French ;  but  her  wits  were  sharpened  by 
anxiety,  and  she  gathered  quite  enough  of  the  sense 
of  the  little  servant's  long  speech  to  feel  very  grateful 
to  her.  In  her  hurry  Franchise  had  poured  all  the 
chocolate  —  or  hot  milk  rather,  for  there  was  very 
little  chocolate  in  the  composition  —  into  one  bowl ; 
but  the  children  were  too  hungry  to  be  particular. 
They  drank  turn-about,  and  finished  by  crumbling  up 
the  remains  of  the  bread  in  the  remains  of  the  milk 
and  eating  it  with  the  spoon,  turn-about  also,  Fran- 
coise  standing  by,  watching  them  with  satisfaction. 
Suddenly  she  started. 

"  I  must  run  down,"  she  said,  "  or  she  will  be  after 
me  again.  I  wish  I  could  stay  to  help  you  to  dress 
Monsieur  Roger,  but  I  dare  not,"  and  gathering  up 
the  dishes  in  her  apron  so  that  they  could  not  be  seen, 
she  turned  to  go. 

"  Dress  him  as  quickly  as  you  can,"  she  said  to 
Gladys,  "  and  then  she  cannot  say  you  have  given 
any  trouble.  But  stay  —  I  will  see  if  I  cannot  get 
you  a  little  hot  water  for  the  poor  b6be\" 

And  off  she  set,  to  appear  again  in  a  minute  with 
a  tin  jug  of  hot  water  which  she  poured  out  into  the 
basin  at  once  for  fear  the  absence  of  the  tin  jug 
should  be  discovered. 

"She  has  eyes  on  every  side  of  her  head,"  she 
whispered  as  she  went  off"  again. 

Roger's  toilet  was  accomplished  more  luxuriously 
than   poor  Gladys's   own,   and   he   was   quite   bright 


124  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

and  happy  with  no  fear  of  Mademoiselle  Anna  or 
any  one  else,  chirping  like  a  little  bird,  as  his  sister 
took  him  down  the  narrow  staircase  to  the  room 
behind  the  shop  where  they  spent  the  mornings. 

"  Hush,  Roger  dear,  we  must  be  very  quiet 
because  poor  Mrs.  Nest  is  ill,  you  know,"  she  said, 
when  his  shrill  little  voice  rose  higher  and  higher, 
for  he  had  had  an  exceedingly  good  night  and  felt 
in  excellent  spirits. 

"  She  can't  hear  us  down  here,"  replied  Roger. 
But  Gladys  still  repeated  her  "  hush,"  for,  in  reality, 
it  was  Anna  who  she  feared  might  overhear  Roger's 
chatter.  She  looked  about  for  something  to  keep 
him  quiet,  but  could  see  nothing.  It  was  warm  in 
the  sitting-room  —  though  if  Anna  could  have  done 
so,  she  would  have  ordered  Franchise  not  to  light 
the  fire  for  the  little  plagues,  as  she  called  them  — 
but  except  for  that  they  would  have  been  happier 
up  in  their  bedroom,  where  Gladys  had  discovered  a 
few  of  Roger's  toys  in  a  corner  of  the  big  trunk, 
which,  however,  Madame  Nest  had  not  allowed  them 
to  bring  down. 

"  When  the  Papa  comes,  I  wish  him  to  find  all 
your  things  in  good  order,"  she  had  said.  "  The  toys 
might  get  broken,  so  while  you  are  here  I  will  find 
you  things  to  amuse  you." 

But  this  morning'  the  bundle  of  cretonne  and  cut- 
out  birds  and  flowers  was  not  to  be  seen ! 

"  I  must  tell  Roger  stories  all  the  morning,  I 
suppose,"  thought  Gladys,  and  she  was  just  going  to 
propose  doing  so,  when  Roger,  who  had  been  stand- 


FROM  BAD   TO    WORSE.  125 

ing  peeping  through  the  glass  door  which  led  into 
the  shop,  suddenly  gave  a  cry  of  pleasure. 

"  Oh,  Gladdie,"  he  said,  "  see  what  a  pretty  carriage 
and  two  prancey  horses  at  the  door  !  " 

Gladys  ran  to  look  —  the  shop  door  was  wide 
open,  for  one  of  the  apprentice  boys  was  sweeping 
it  out,  and  they  could  see  right  into  the  street.  The 
carriage  had  stopped,  as  Roger  said,  and  out  of  it 
stepped  one  of  two  people  seated  in  it.  It  was  the 
younger  of  the  two  ladies  that  the  children  had  seen 
that  first  day  in  the  Rue  Verte  when  they  were 
hidden  behind  the  blue  sofa  in  the  corner. 

She  came  forward  into  the  shop. 

"  Is  there  no  one  here  ?  "  she  said  in  French. 

The  apprentice,  very  dusty  and  looking  rather 
ashamed,  came  out  of  a  corner.  It  was  not  often 
that  ladies  in  grand  carriages  came  themselves  to  the 
little  shop,  for  though  the  Nestors  had  some  very 
good  customers,  Monsieur  Adolphe  usually  went 
himself  to  their  houses  for  orders. 

"  I  will  call  some  one,"  said  the  boy,  "  if  Made- 
moiselle will  have  the  goodness  to  wait  a  moment," 
and  he  disappeared  through  a  little  door  in  the 
corner  of  the  shop  which  led  into  the  workroom 
another  way. 

The  young  lady  shivered  a  little — it  was  very 
cold  —  and  then  walked  about,  glancing  at  the 
furniture  now  and  then.  She  seemed  to  think  it  too 
cold  to  sit  down.  There  was  certainly  no  dearth  of 
chairs ! 

"  I  wonder  if  we  should  ask  her  to  come  in  here," 


126  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

said  Gladys.  But  before  she  had  time  to  decide,  the 
door  by  which  the  boy  had  gone  out  opened  again 
and  Mademoiselle  Anna  appeared.  She  came  for- 
ward with  the  most  gracious  manner  and  sweetest 
smiles  imaginable.  Gladys,  who  had  never  seen  her 
like  that,  felt  quite  amazed. 

The  young  lady  received  Anna's  civilities  very 
calmly.  She  had  never  seen  her  before,  and  thought 
her  rather  a  vulgar  young  woman.  But  when  Anna 
begged  her  to  come  for  a  moment  into  the  sitting- 
room  while  she  went  to  fetch  the  patterns  the  young 
lady  had  come  for  she  did  not  refuse. 

"  It  is  certainly  bitterly  cold  this  morning,"  she 
said. 

"And  we  are  all  so  upset  —  by  the  sad  accident  to 
our  poor  dear  Madame  —  Mademoiselle  must  excuse 
us,"  said  Anna,  leading  the  way  to  the  sitting-room 
as  she  spoke. 

Rosamond  stopped  short. 

"  An  accident  to  that  good  Madame  Nestor.  I 
am  very  sorry,"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  Anna  went  on  in  her  honeyed  tones, 
"  it  is  really  too  sad.  It  was  —  but  will  not  Made- 
moiselle come  out  of  the  cold,  and  I  will  tell  her 
about  it,"  she  went  on,  backing  towards  the  glass 
door.  It  opened  inwards ;  the  children,  very  much 
interested  in  watching  the  little  scene  in  the  shop, 
and  not  quite  understanding  Anna's  intention,  had 
not  thought  of  getting  out  of  the  way.  Anna  opened 
the  door  sharply,  as  she  did  everything,  and  in  so 
doing  overthrew  the  small  person  of  Roger,  whose 


Anna  opened  tub  Door  sharply,  as  she  did  Everything,  and  in  so 
doing  overthrew  the  small  pebson  of  itoger.  —  p.  126. 


FROM   BAD   TO   WORSE.  127 

short  fat  legs  were  less  agile  than  the  longer  and 
thinner  ones  of  his  sister.  Gladys  sprang  away  like 
a  kitten,  but  only  to  spring  back  again  the  next 
moment,  as  a  doleful  cry  rose  from  poor  Roger. 

"You  are  not  hurt,  darling,  are  you?"  she  said,  as 
she  knelt  down  to  pick  him  up. 

Roger  Avent  on  crying  softly.  He  preferred  to  take 
his  time  about  deciding  that  he  wasn't  hurt.  And  in 
the  meantime  the  stranger  young  lady  had  come 
into  the  room  and  was  looking  round  her  in  some 
surprise. 

"Has  the  little  boy  fallen  down?"  she  asked  in 
French.  "  Poor  little  fellow  !  Are  they  Madame 
Nestor's  grandchildren  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear,  no,"  replied  Anna,  casting  a  contempt- 
uous glance  at. Gladys  and  Roger,  who,  crouching  on 
the  floor  in  the  corner  of  the  always  dusky  little  room, 
could  not  be  very  clearly  distinguished.  "  Get  up," 
continued  she,  turning  to  them,  "  get  up  at  once  and 
go  to  your  own  room." 

Frightened  by  her  tone  and  by  Roger's  continued 
sobbing,  Gladys  dragged  him  up  from  the  floor  as 
well  as  she  could,  and  escaped  with  him  by  the  door 
leading  upstairs,  near  to  which  they  happened  to  be. 
Something  in  the  sudden  change  of  Anna's  tone 
roused  the  young  lady's  suspicions. 

"  Who  are  they,  then  ?  "  she  asked  again.  "And 
are  you  sure  the  little  boy  is  not  hurt?" 

"He  cries  for  nothing,  Mademoiselle  —  he  is  always 
crying.  They  are  children  our  good  Madame  has 
taken  in  out  of  charity  ;  it  is  very  difficult  to  manage 


128  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

with  them  just  now,  poor  little  things.  They  have 
been  so  neglected  and  are  so  troublesome  ;  but  we 
must  do  our  best  till  our  dear  Madame  gets  better," 
and  then  she  went  on  into  a  long  description  of  the 
accident,  how  she  herself  had  just  gone  to  spend  two 
days  with  her  sister,  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  years, 
when  she  had  been  recalled,  etc.  etc.,  all  told  so  clev- 
erly that  Rosamond  went  away,  thinking  that  after 
all  she  must  be  a  very  good  sort  of  young  woman,  and 
that  it  was  not  right  to  yield  to  prejudice.  Yet  still 
she  could  not  quite  forget  the  glimpse  she  had  had 
of  the  two  little  creatures  taken  in  "  out  of  charity," 
and  the  sound  of  Roger's  stifled  sobs. 

Gladys  and  he  stayed  upstairs  till  they  were  called 
down  to  "  dejeuner."  It  was  cold,  but  they  minded 
the  cold  less  than  sharp  words  and  unkind  looks. 
Gladys  wrapped  Roger  up  in  a  shawl  and  pulled  a 
blanket  off  the  bed  for  herself,  and  then  they  both 
cuddled  down  together  in  a  corner,  and  she  told  him 
all  the  stories  she  could  think  of.  By  twelve  o'clock 
they  were  very  hungry,  for  in  spite  of  Franchise's  en- 
deavours they  had  had  much  less  breakfast  than  usual, 
but  they  had  no  idea  what  time  it  was,  and  were  too 
frightened  to  go  down,  and  there  they  would  have 
stayed,  all  day  perhaps,  if  Adolphe,  reminded  of  them 
by  his  poor  mother's  constant  questions,  had  not  sent 
one  of  the  apprentice  boys  to  fetch  them  down,  and 
meek  and  trembling  the  two  poor  little  things  entered 
the  long  narrow  room  where  all  the  members  of  the 
household  were  seated  round  the  table. 

But  there  was  no  kindly  welcome  for  them  as  at 


FEOM   BAD   TO   WORSE.  129 

dinner  the  day  before.  Monsieur  Adolphe's  usually 
good-humoured  face  looked  worried  and  vexed. 

"  Sit  down  and  take  yoiir  food,''  he  said  coldly. 
"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  from  Mademoiselle  Anna 
how  troublesome  you  have  been  this  morning.  I 
thought  you,  Mademoiselle,  as  so  much  older  than 
your  brother,  who  is  really  only  a  baby,  would  have 
tried  to  keep  him  quiet  for  the  sake  of  my  poor 
mother.'' 

Gladys's  face  turned  scarlet;  at  first  she  could 
scarcely  believe  that  she  had  heard  aright,  for  it  was 
very  difficult  to  understand  the  young  man's  bad 
English,  but  a  glance  at  his  face  showed  her  she  was 
not  mistaken.  She  clasped  her  hands  in  a  sort  of 
despair. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  'Dolph,"  she  said,  "  how  can  you  think 
we  would  be  so  naughty?  It  was  only  that  Roger 
fell  down,  and  that  made  him  cry." 

"  Do  not  listen  to  her,"  said  Anna  in  a  hard  indif- 
ferent tone,  "naughty  children  always  make  excuses." 

But  the  sight  of  the  real  misery  in  Gladys's  face 
was  too  much  for  kind-hearted  Adolphe.  He  noticed, 
too,  that  both  she  and  Roger  were  looking  pale  and 
pinched  with  cold,  and  he  had  his  own  doubts  as  to 
Anna's  truthfulness,  though  he  was  too  much  under 
her  to  venture  to  contradict  her. 

"  Don't  ciy,  my  child,"  he  said  kindly.  "  Try  to 
be  very  good  and  quiet  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  eat 
your  dejeuner  now." 

Gladys  made  a  valiant  effort  to  choke  down  her 
tears. 


130  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

"Is  Mrs.  Nest  better  to-day?"  she  asked. 

The  son  shook  his  head. 

"I  fear  not,"  he  replied  sadly;  "she  has  a  great 
deal  of  fever.  And  I  am,  unfortunately,  obliged  to 
go  into  the  country  for  a  day  or  two  about  some 
important  business." 

"  You  are  going  away !  oh,  Mr.  'Dolph,  there  will 
be  no  one  to  take  care  of  us,"  cried  Gladys,  the  tears 
rushing  to  her  eyes  again. 

The  young  man  was  touched  by  her  distress. 

"  Oh  yes,  yes,"  he  said ;  "  they  will  all  be  very 
kind  to  you.  I  will  speak  to  them,  and  I  shall  be 
soon  back  again,  and  you  and  my  little  Roger  will  be 
very  good,  I  am  sure." 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said.  Gladj^s  tried 
to  go  on  eating,  though  her  hunger  had  quite  left 
her,  and  it  was  difficult  to  swallow  anything  without 
crying  again.  Only  one  thought  grew  clearer  in  her 
mind  —  "I  must  write  to  Miss  Susan." 

During  the  rest  of  the  meal  Adolphe  kept  talking 
to  Anna  about  the  work  and  other  things  to  be  seen 
to  while  he  was  away. 

"  You  must  be  sure  to  send  to-morrow  early  to  put 
up  those  curtains  at  the  English  ladies'  —  9  Avenue 
Gerard." 

"  9  Avenue  Gerard  —  that  is  their  new  house," 
said  Anna,  and  the  address,  which  she  had  already 
heard  twice  repeated,  caught  Gladys's  ear. 

"  And  tell  the  one  who  goes  to  ask  for  the  patterns 
back  — those  the  young  lady  took  away  to-day.  Oh, 
by  the  bye,  did  she  see  the  children  ?  "  asked  Adolphe. 


FROM  BAD  TO   WORSE.  131 

"  No,  you  may  be  sure.  That  is  to  say,  I  hurried 
them  out  of  the  way,  forward  little  things.  It  was 
just  the  moment  she  was  here,  that  he,  the  bebe 
there,  chose  for  bursting  out  crying,"  replied  Anna. 

"  I  hope  she  did  not  go  away  with  the  idea  they 
were  not  kindly  treated,"  said  Adolphe,  looking 
displeased. 

"She  thought  nothing  about  them  —  she  hardly 
caught  sight  of  them." 

"She  did  not  see  that  they  were  English  —  her 
country-people  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  Anna.  "  Do  you  think 
I  have  no  more  sense  than  to  bother  all  your  cus- 
tomers with  the  history  of  any  little  beggars  your 
mother  chooses  to  take  in  ?  " 

"  I  was  not  speaking  of  all  the  customers  —  I  was 
speaking  of  those  English  ladies  who  might  have 
taken  an  interest  in  these  children,  because  they  too 
are  English  —  or  at  least  have  given  us  some  advice 
what  to  do.  I  have  already  been  thinking  of  asking 
them.  But  now  it  may  be  too  late  if  they  saw  the 
children  crying  and  you  scolding  them ;  no  doubt, 
they  will  either  think  they  are  naughty  disagreeable 
children  or  that  we  are  unkind  to  them.  Either  will 
do  harm.     You  have  made  a  great  mistake." 

He  got  up  and  left  the  room,  afraid  perhaps  of 
saying  more,  for  at  this  moment  he  could  not 
afford  to  quarrel  with  Anna.  Poor  man,  his  troubles 
seemed  to  be  coming  on  him  all  at  once !  Gladys 
understood  very  little  of  what  they  were  saying,  but 
she  saw  that  Adolphe  was  not  pleased  with  Made- 


132  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

moiselle  Anna,  and  it  made  her  fear  that  Anna  would 
be  still  crosser  to  Roger  or  her.  But  she  took  no 
notice  of  them,  and  when  they  had  finished  she 
called  Franchise,  and  told  her  to  take  them  into  the 
sitting-room  and  make  up  the  fire. 

"  P'raps  she's  going  to  be  kind  now,  Gladdie,"  said 
Roger,  with  the  happy  hopefulness  of  his  age.  But 
Gladys  shook  her  head. 

Monsieur  Adolphe  set  off  that  afternoon. 

For  the  first  day  or  two  things  went  on  rather 
better  than  Gladys  had  expected.  Anna  had  had  a 
fright,  and  did  not  dare  actually  to  neglect  or  ill-treat 
the  children.  So  Glad}rs  put  off  writing  to  Miss 
Susan,  which,  as  you  know,  she  had  the  greatest 
dislike  to  doing  till  she  saw  how  things  went  on. 
Besides  this  same  writing  was  no  such  easy  matter 
for  her.  She  had  neither  pen,  ink,  nor  paper  —  she 
was  not  sure  how  to  spell  the  address,  and  she  had 
not  a  halfpenny  of  money  !  Very  likely  if  she  had 
spoken  of  her  idea  to  Adolphe  he  would  have  been 
only  too  glad  for  her  to  write,  but  Anna  was  a  very 
different  person  to  deal  with. 

"If  I  asked  her  for  paper  and  a  pen  she  would 
very  likely  scold  me  —  very  likely  she  wouldn't  like 
me  to  write  while  Mr.  'Dolph  is  away,  for  fear  he 
should  think  she  had  been  unkind  and  that  that  had 
made  me  do  it,"  reflected  Gladys,  whose  wits  were 
much  sharpened  by  trouble.  "And  I  daren't  make 
her  angry  while  we're  alone  with  her." 

Thus  the  letter  was  deferred.  Things  might 
possibly  have   gone  smoothly  till   Adolphe's   return, 


FROM  BAD   TO   WORSE.  138 

for  Anna  wished  to  avoid  any  upset  now  she  saw 
how  strongly  the  Nestors  felt  on  the  subject.  But 
unfortunately  bad-tempered  people  cannot  always 
control  themselves  to  act  as  their  common  sense  tells 
them  would  be  best  even  for  themselves.  And 
Mademoiselle  Anna  had  a  very  bad  and  violent 
temper,  which  often  got  quite  the  mastery  of  her. 
So  the  calm  did  not  last  long. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"AVENUE    GERARD,   NO.    9." 

"  One  foot  up  and  the  other  foot  clown, 
For  that  is  the  way  to  London  town. 
And  just  the  same,  over  dale  and  hill, 
'Tis  also  the  way  to  wherever  you  will." 

Old  Rhyme. 

It  was  a  very  cold  day,  colder  than  is  usual  in  Paris 
in  November,  where  the  winter,  though  intense  while 
it  lasts,  seldom  sets  in  before  the  New  Year.  But 
though  cold,  there  had  been  sufficient  brightness  and 
sunshine,  though  of  a  pale  and  feeble  kind,  to 
encourage  the  Mammas  of  Paris  either  to  take  out 
their  darlings  themselves  or  to  entrust  them  to  the 
nurses  and  maids,  and  nursery  governesses  of  all 
nations  who,  on  every  fairly  fine  day,  may  be  seen 
with  their  little  charges  walking  up  and  down  what 
Roger  called  "  the  pretty  wide  street,"  which  had  so 
taken  his  fancy  the  day  of  the  expedition  with 
Monsieur  Adolphe. 

Among  all  the  little  groups  walking  up  and  down 
pretty  steadily,  for  it  was  too  cold  for  loitering,  or 
whipping  tops,  or  skipping-ropes,  as  in  finer  weather, 
two  small  figures  hurrying  along  hand-in-hand,  caught 
the  attention  of  several  people.  Had  they  been  dis- 
tinctly of  the   humbler  classes  nobody  would  have 

134 


AVENUE   GERARD,   NO.  9.  135 

noticed  them  much,  for  even  in  this  aristocratic 
part  of  the  town  one  sometimes  sees  quite  poor 
children  threading  their  way  among  or  standing  to 
admire  the  little  richly-dressed  pets  who,  after  all, 
are  but  children  like  themselves.  And  sometimes  a 
burst  of  innocent  laughter,  or  bright  smiles  of 
pleasure,  will  spread  from  the  rich  to  the  poor,  at  the 
sight  of  Henri's  top  having  triumphed  over  Xavier's, 
or  at  the  solemn  dignity  of  the  walking  doll  of  five- 
year-old  Yvonne. 

But  these  two  little  people  wTere  evidently  not  of 
the  lower  classes.  Not  only  were  they  warmly  and 
neatly  dressed  —  though  that,  indeed,  would  hardly 
have  settled  the  question,  as  it  is  but  very  seldom  in 
Paris  that  one  sees  the  children  of  even  quite  humble 
parents  ill  or  insufficiently  clad  —  but  even  though 
their  coats  and  hats  were  plain  and  unfashionable, 
there  was  about  them  a  decided  look  of  refinement 
and  good-breeding.     And  }ret  they  were  alone  ! 

"  Who  can  they  be  ?  "  said  one  lady  to  another. 
"  Just  see  how  half-frightened  and  yet  determined  the 
little  girl  looks." 

"  And  how  the  boy  clings  to  her.  They  are 
English,  I  suppose  —  English  people  are  so  eccentric, 
and  let  their  children  do  all  sorts  of  things  we  would 
never  dream  of." 

"  Not  the  English  of  the  upper  classes,"  replied 
the  first  lad}r,  with  a  slight  shade  of  annoyance. 
"  You  forget  I  am  half  English  myself  by  my  mother's 
side,  so  I  should  know.  You  take  your  ideas  of  the 
English  from  anything  but  the  upper  classes.     I  am 


136  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

always  impressing  that  on  my  friends.  How  would 
you  like  if  the  English  judged  us  by  the  French  they 
see  in  Leicester  Square,  or  by  the  dressmakers  and 
ladies'  maids  who  go  over  and  call  themselves 
governesses?" 

"  I  wouldn't  like  it,  but  I  daresay  it  is  often  done, 
nevertheless,"  said  the  other  lady  good-naturedly. 
"  But  very  likely  those  children  do  not  belong  to 
the  upper  classes." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  first  lady.  She  stopped  as 
she  spoke  and  looked  after  the  children,  who  had 
now  passed  them,  thoughtfully.  "  No,"  she  went  on, 
"  I  don't  think  they  are  common  children.  I  fancy 
there  must  be  something  peculiar  about  them.  Can 
they  have  lost  their  way?  Antoinette,"  she  added 
suddenly,  turning  round.  "  You  may  think  me  very 
foolish  and  eccentric  —  '  English,'  if  you  like,  but  I 
am  going  to  run  after  them  and  see  if  there  is  any- 
thing the  matter.  Look  after  Lili  for  a  moment  for 
me,  please." 

Antoinette  laughed. 

"  Do  as  you  please,  my  dear,"  she  said. 

So  off  hastened,  in  her  rich  velvet  and  furs,  the 
other  lady.  It  was  not  difficult  to  overtake  the 
children,  for  the  two  pairs  of  legs  had  trotted  a  long 
way  and  were  growing  weary.  But  when  close  be- 
hind them  their  new  friend  slackened  her  pace.  How 
was  she  to  speak  to  them?  She  did  not  know  that 
they  were  English,  or  even  strangers,  and  if  they 
were  the  former  that  did  not  much  mend  matters,  for, 
alas  !  notwithstanding;  the  half  British  origin  she  was 


AVENUE   GERARD,    NO.  9.  137 

rather  fond  of  talking  about,  the  pretty  young 
mother  had  been  an  idle  little  girl  in  her  time,  and 
had  consistently  declined  to  learn  any  language  but 
her  own.  Now,  she  wished  for  her  Lili's  sake  to  make 
up  for  lost  time,  and  was  looking  out  for  an  English 
governess,  but  as  yet  she  dared  not  venture  on  any 
rash  attempts.  She  summoned  up  her  courage,  how- 
ever, and  gently  touched  the  little  girl  on  the 
shoulder,  and  all  her  suspicions  that  something 
unusual  was  in  question  were  awakened  again  by 
the  start  of  terror  the  child  gave,  and  the  pallid  look 
of  misery,  quickly  followed  by  an  expression  of  relief, 
with  which  she  looked  up  in  her  face. 

"  I  thought  it  was  Anna,"  she  half  whispered, 
clutching  her  little  brother's  hand  more  tightly  than 
before. 

"Mademoiselle  —  my  child,"  said  the  lady,  for  the 
dignity  on  the  little  face,  white  and  frightened  as  it 
was,  made  her  not  sure  how  to  address  her.  "  Can 
I  do  anything  to  help  you  ?  You  are  alone  —  have 
you  perhaps  lost  your  way?  " 

The  last  few  words  Gladys,  for  she  of  course  it 
was,  did  not  follow.  But  the  offer  of  help,  thanks 
to  the  kind  eyes  looking  down  on  her,  she  under- 
stood. She  gazed  for  a  moment  into  these  same 
eyes,  and  then  seeming  to  gather  confidence  she 
carefully  drew  out  from  the  pocket  of  her  ulster  — 
the  same  new  ulster  she  had  so  proudly  put  on  for 
the  first  time  the  day  of  the  journey  which  was  to 
have  ended  with  "Papa"  and  happiness  —  a  little 
piece    of   paper,  rather   smudgy-looking,  it  must   be 


138  TWO    LITTLE   WAIFS. 

owned,  which  she  unfolded  and  held  up  to  the  lady. 
On  it  were  written  the  words  — 

"  9  Avenue  Gerard." 

"  Avenue  Ge'rard,"  repeated  the  lady ;  "  is  that 
where  you  want  to  go  ?     It  is  not  far  from  here." 

But  seeing  that  the  child  did  not  take  in  the 
meaning  of  her  words,  she  changed  her  tactics. 
Taking  Gladys  by  the  hand  she  led  her  to  one  side 
of  the  broad  walk  where  they  were  standing,  and 
pointing  to  a  street  at  right  angles  from  the  rows  of 
houses  bordering  the  Champs  Elyse'es. 

"  Go  along  there,"  she  said,  "  and  then  turn  to  the 
left  and  you  will  see  the  name,  '  Avenue  Ge'rard,'  at 
the  corner." 

She  pointed  as  she  spoke ;  then  she  stooped,  and 
with  the  sharp  point  of  the  tiny  umbrella  she  carried, 
traced  in  lines  the  directions  she  had  given,  in  the 
gravel  on  which  they  were  standing.  Gladys  con- 
sidered for  a  moment  in  silence,  then  she  lifted  her 
head  and  nodded  brightly. 

"  I  understand,"  she  said,  "  and  thank  you  very 
much." 

Then  taking  Roger's  hand,  which,  while  speaking 
to  the  lady  she  had  let  go,  she  smiled  again,  and 
whispering  something  to  her  brother  which  made 
him  pluck  off  his  little  cap,  the  two  small  pilgrims 
set  off  again  on  their  journey.  The  lady  stood  for 
a  moment  looking  after  them,  and  I  think  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  could  have  done  more  for  them," 
she  said  to  herself.     "  Fancy  Lili  and  Jean  by  them- 


GO   ALONO   TIIKIIE,"  SHE  SAID,  "  ANB   TnEN  TURV  TO  THE   LEFT   ANT)   YOU 
WILL   SEE    THE   NAME,  '  AVENUE    GERARD,'  AT   THE   CORNER." — p.  138. 


AVENUE   GERARD,    NO.  9.  139 

selves  like  that !  But  they  know  where  they  have 
to  go  to  —  the}T  are  not  lost." 

"  How  kind  she  was,"  said  Gladys,  as  she  led  her 
little  brother  in  the  direction  the  lady  had  pointed 
out.  "It  is  not  far  now,  Roger,  dear — are  you  very 
tired?" 

Roger  made  a  manful  effort  to  step  out  more 
briskly. 

"Not  so  very,  Gladdie.  But  oh,  Gladdie,  I  was 
so  frightened  when  I  felt  you  stop  and  when  I  saw 
your  face.     Oh,  Gladdie,  I  thought  it  was  Aer." 

"  So  did  I,"  said  Gladys  with  a  shiver. 

"  Would  she  have  put  us  in  prison  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Gladys.  "  I  heard  her  say 
something  to  Francoise  about  the  police.  I  don't 
know  if  that  means  prison.  But  these  ladies  won't 
let  her,  'cos  you  know,  Roger,  they're  English,  like 
us." 

"Is  all  French  peoples  naughty?  "  inquired  Roger 
meekry. 

"No,  you  silly  little  boy,"  giving  him  a  small 
shake,  "of  course  not.  Think  of  Mrs.  Nest,  and 
Franchise,  and  even  that  lady  —  oh,  I  didn't  mean  to 
make  you  cry.  You're  not  silly  —  I  didn't  mean  it, 
dear." 

But  Roger  could  not  at  once  stop  his  tears,  for 
they  were  as  much  the  result  of  tiredness  and  excite- 
ment as  of  Gladys's  words. 

"  Gladdie,"  lie  went  on  plaintively,  "  what  will 
you  do  if  those  ladies  aren't  kind  to  us?  " 

"They'll  help  me  to  send  a  tele  —  you  know  what 


140  TWO   LITTLE    WAIFS. 

I  mean  —  a  letter  in  that  quick  way,  to  Miss  Susan," 
replied  Gladys  confidently.  "  That's  all  I'm  going 
to  ask  them.     They'd  never  refuse  that." 

"And  could  Miss  Susan  get  here  to-day,  do  you 
think  ?  " 

Gladys  hesitated. 

"  I  don't  quite  know.  I  don't  know  how  long  it 
takes  people  to  come  that  way.  But  I'm  afraid  it 
costs  a  good  deal.  We  must  ask  the  ladies.  Perhaps 
they'll  get  us  a  little  room  somewhere,  where  Anna 
can't  find  us,  till  Miss  Susan  sends  for  us." 

"  But,"  continued  Roger,  "  what  will  you  do  if 
they're  out,  Gladdie  ?  " 

Gladys  did  not  answer.  Strange  to  say,  practical 
as  she  was,  this  possibility  had  never  occurred  to  her. 
Her  one  idea  had  been  to  make  her  way  to  the 
Avenue  Gerard '  at  once,  then  it  had  seemed  to  her 
that  all  difficulties  would  be  at  an  end. 

"  What's  the  good  of  saying  that,  Roger  ? "  she 
said  at  last.     "  If  they're  out  we'll  —  " 

"What?" 

"  Wait  till  they  come  in,  I  suppose." 

"  It'll  be  very  cold  waiting  in  the  street  —  like  beg- 
gars," grumbled  Roger.  But  he  said  it  in  a  low  tone, 
not  particularly  wishing  Gladys  to  hear.  Only  he 
was  so  tired  that  he  had  to  grumble  a  little. 

Suddenly  Gladys  pulled  up. 

"  There  it  is,"  she  said.  "  Look  up  there,  Roger ; 
that's  the  name,  '  Av-e-nue  Ger-ard.'  It's  just  a  street. 
I  thought  an  avenue  would  have  been  all  trees,  like 
in  the  country.     Nine  —  I  wonder  which  is  nine  ?  " 


AVENUE   GERARD,    NO.  9.  141 

Opposite  to  where  they  stood  was  No.  34.  Gladys 
led  Roger  on  a  little  bit  and  looked  at  the  number  on 
the  other  side.  It  was  31,  and  the  next  beyond  that 
was  29. 

"It's  this  way.  They  get  littler  this  way,"  she 
exclaimed.  "  Come  on,  Roger,  darling  —  it's  not 
far." 

"  But  if  we've  to  wait  in  the  street,"  repeated 
Roger  faintly,  for  he  was  now  possessed  by  this  new 
idea. 

Gladys  said  nothing  —  perhaps  she  did  not  hear. 

"Twenty-seven,  twenty-five,  twenty-three,"  she 
said,  as  they  passed  each  house,  so  intent  on  reach- 
ing No.  9  that  she  did  not  even  feel  frightened. 
Between  seventeen  and  fifteen  there  was  a  long 
space  of  hoardings  shutting  off  unbuilt-upon  ground 
—  nine  seemed  a  very  long  time  of  coming.  But  at 
last  —  at  last ! 

It  was  a  large,  very  handsome  house,  and  Gladys, 
young  as  she  was,  said  at  once  to  herself  that  the 
English  ladies,  as  she  had  got  into  the  way  of  call- 
ing them,  must  be  very  very  rich.  For  she  did  not 
understand  that  in  Paris  one  enormous  house,  such 
as  the  one  she  was  standing  before,  contains  the 
dwellings  of  several  families,  each  of  which  is  often 
as  large  as  a  good-sized  English  house,  only  without 
stairs  once  you  have  entered,  as  all  the  rooms  are  on 
one  floor. 

"I  wonder  which  is  the  front  door,"  said  Gladys. 
"  There  seems  so  many  in  there."  For  the  great 
doors  of  the  entrance-court  stood  open,  and,  peeping 


142  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

in,  it  seemed  to  her  that  there  was  nothing  but  doors 
on  every  side  to  be  seen. 

"  We  must  ask,"  she  at  last  said  resolutely,  and 
foraging  in  her  pocket  she  again  drew  forth  the 
crumpled  piece  of  paper  with  "No.  9  Avenue  Ger- 
ard," and  armed  with  this  marched  in. 

A  man  started  up  from  somewhere  —  indeed  he 
had  been  already  watching  them,  though  they  had 
not  seen  him.  He  was  the  porter  for  the  whole 
house. 

"  What  do  you  want  —  whom  are  you  looking 
for?"  he  said.  At  first,  thinking  they  ivere  little 
beggars  or  something  of  the  kind,  for  the  courtyard 
was  not  very  light,  he  had  come  out  meaning  to  drive 
them  away.  But  when  he  came  nearer  them  he  saw 
they  were  not  what  he  had  thought,  and  he  spoke 
therefore  rather  more  civilly.  Still,  he  never  thought 
of  saying  "Mademoiselle"  to  Gladys  —  no  children  of 
the  upper  classes  would  be  wandering  about  alone ! 
Gladys's  only  answer  was  to  hold  oat  the  bit  of 
paper. 

"  Avenue  Gerard,  No.  9,"  read  the  man.  "  Yes,  it 
is  quite  right  —  it  is  here.  But  there  is  no  name. 
Who  is  it  you  want  ?  " 

"  The  English  ladies,"  replied  Gladys  in  her  own 
tongue,  which  she  still  seemed  to  think  everybody 
should  understand.  She  had  gathered  the  meaning 
of  the  man's  words,  helped  thereto  by  his  gesticula- 
tions. 

"  The  English  ladies  —  I  don't  know  their  name." 

Only  one  word  was  comprehensible  by  the  porter. 


AVENUE   GERARD,   NO.  9.  143 

"  English,"  he  repeated,  using  of  course  the  French 
word  for  "  English."  "  It  must  be  the  English  ladies 
on  the  second  floor  they  want.  No  doubt  they  are 
some  of  the  poor  English  those  ladies  are  so  kind  to. 
And  yet  — "  he  looked  at  them  dubiously.  They 
didn't  quite  suit  his  description.  Anyway,  there  was 
but  one  answer  to  give.  "  The  ladies  were  out ;  the 
children  must  come  again  another  day." 

Gladys  and  Roger,  too,  understood  the  first  four 
words.     Their  worst  fears  had  come  true  ! 

If  Gladys  could  have  spoken  French  she  would 
perhaps  have  found  courage  to  ask  the  man  to  let 
them  come  in  and  wait  a  little ;  for  as,  speechless, 
still  holding  poor  Roger  by  the  hand,  she  slowly 
moved  to  go,  she  caught  sight  of  a  cheerful  little 
room  where  a  bright  fire  was  burning,  the  glass  door 
standing  half  open,  and  towards  which  the  porter 
turned. 

"That  must  be  his  house,"  thought  Gladys  in  a 
sort  of  half-stupid  dreamy  way.  It  was  no  use  try- 
ing to  ask  him  to  let  them  go  in  and  wait  there. 
There  was  nowhere  for  them  —  he  seemed  to  think 
they  were  beggars,  and  would  perhaps  call  the  police 
if  they  didn't  go  away  at  once.  So  she  drew  Roger  out 
into  the  street  again,  out  of  the  shelter  of  the  court, 
where  the  wind  felt  rather  less  piercing,  and,  without 
speaking,  wandered  a  few  steps  down  the  street  they 
had  two  minutes  ago  toiled  along  so  hopefully. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  G laddie  ?  What  are  you 
going  to  do  ?  I  knew  they'd  be  out,"  said  Roger, 
breaking  into  one  of  his  piteous  fits  of  crying. 


144  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

Gladys's  heart  seemed  as  if  it  was  going  to  stop. 
What  ivas  she  going  to  do  ? 

Wait  in  the  street  a  little,  she  had  said  to  Roger. 
But  how  could  they  ?  The  wind  seemed  to  be  getting 
colder  and  colder ;  the  daylight  even  was  beginning 
to  fade  a  little  ;  they  were  not  onty  cold,  they  were 
desperately  hungry,  for  they  had  had  nothing  to  eat 
except  the  little  bowl  of  milk  and  crust  of  bread  — 
that  was  all  Franchise  had  been  able  to  give  them 
early  that  morning.  She  had  been  out  at  the  market 
when  the  children  ran  away  from  Anna  in  one  of  her 
terrible  tempers,  so  Gladys  had  not  even  been  able  to 
ask  her  for  a  few  sous  with  which  to  get  something 
to  eat.  Indeed,  had  Franchise  been  there,  I  daresay 
they  would  have  been  persuaded  by  her  to  wait  till 
Adolphe  came  home,  for  he  was  expected  that  even- 
ing, though  they  did  not  know  it ! 

"  Roger,  darling,  try  not  to  cry  so,"  said  Gladys, 
at  last  rinding  her  voice.  "  Wait  a  moment  and  I'll 
try  to  think.  If  only  there  was  a  shop  near,  per- 
haps they'd  let  us  go  in ;  but  there  are  no  shops  in 
this  street." 

No  shops  and  very  few  passers-by,  at  this  time  of 
day  anyway.  A  step  sounded  along  the  pavement 
just  as  Gladys  had  drawn  Roger  back  to  the  wall  of 
the  house  they  were  passing,  meaning  to  wipe  his 
eyes  and  turn  up  the  collar  of  his  coat  to  keep  the 
wind  from  his  throat.  Gladys  looked  up  in  hopes 
that  possibly,  in  some  wonderful  way,  the  new-comer 
might  prove  a  friend  in  need.  But  no  —  it  was  only 
a  man  in  a  sort  of  uniform,  an  1   with  a   black    bag 


AVENUE   GERARD,   NO.  9.  145 

strapped  in  front.  Gladys  had  seen  one  like  him  at 
the  Rue  Verte ;  it  was  only  the  postman.  He 
glanced  at  them  as  he  passed ;  he  was  a  kind-hearted 
little  man,  and  would  have  been  quite  capable  of  tak- 
ing the  two  forlorn  "babe's  "  home  to  his  good  wife 
to  be  clothed  and  fed  —  for  there  are  many  kind 
Samaritans  even  in  careless,  selfish  big  towns  like 
Paris  —  but  how  were  they  to  guess  that,  or  how 
was  he  to  know  their  trouble  ?  So  he  passed  on  ;  but 
a  house  or  two  farther  on  he  stopped  again,  being 
accosted  by  a  gentleman  coming  quickly  up  the  street 
in  the  other  direction,  just  as  he  was  turning  in  to 
the  courtyard  of  No.  9. 

"  There  is  only  a  paper  for  you,  sir,"  he  said  to  the 
young  man,  whom  he  evidently  knew,  in  answer  to 
his  inquiry.     "  Will  you  take  it  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  was  the  reply  ;  and  both,  after  a  civil 
good-evening,  were  going  on  their  way  when  a 
sound  made  them  stop.  It  was  Roger  —  all  Gladys's 
efforts  had  been  useless,  and  his  temper  as  well  as  his 
courage  giving  way  he  burst  into  a  loud  roar.  He 
was  too  worn  out  to  have  kept  it  up  for  long  at  such 
a  pitch,  but  while  it  lasted  it  was  very  effective, 
for  both  the  gentleman  and  the  postman  turned 
back. 

"  I  noticed  these  children  a  moment  ago,"  said  the 
latter.  "  I  wondered  if  they  had  lost  their  way,  but 
I  dared  not  wait." 

"  I'll  see  what  it  is,"  said  the  young  man  good- 
naturedly.     But  the  postman  lingered  a  moment. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  the  young  man   in 


146  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

French.  "What's  the  little  boy  crying  for?"  he 
went  on,  turning  to  Gladys. 

But  her  answer  astonished  him  not  a  little.  She 
stared  blankly  up  in  his  face  without  speaking  for  a 
moment.  Then  with  a  sort  of  stifled  scream  she 
rushed  forward  and  caught  his  hands. 

"  Oh  you're  the  nice  gentleman  we  met  —  you  are 
—  don't  say  you're  not.  You're  the  English  gentle- 
man, aren't  you  ?  Oh,  will  you  take  care  of  us  — 
we're  all  alone  —  we've  run  away." 

Walter  kept  her  poor  little  hands  in  his,  but  for 
half  a  moment  he  did  not  speak.  I  think  there  were 
tears  in  his  eyes.  He  had  so  often  thought  of  the 
little  pair  he  had  met  on  the  Boulevards,  that  some- 
how he  did  not  seem  to  feel  surprise  at  this  strange 
meeting. 

"  My  little  girl,"  he  said  kindly,  "  who  are  you  ? 
Where  have  you  run  away  from  ?  Not  from  your 
home  ?  I  remember  meeting  you ;  but  you  must  tell 
me  more  —  you  must  tell  me  everything  before  I  can 
help  you  or  take  you  where  you  want  to  go." 

"  No.  9  Avenue  Gerard :  that's  where  we  were 
going,"  replied  Gladys  confusedly.  "  But  they're 
out  —  the  ladies  are  out." 

"  And  we  have  to  wait  in  the  stre-eet,"  sobbed  Roger. 

Walter  started. 

"9  Avenue  Gerard,"  he  said;  "how  can  that  be? 
Whom  do  you  know  there?" 

"  Some  ladies  who'll  be  kind  to  us,  and  know  what 
we  say,  for  they're  English.  I  don't  know  their 
name,"  answered  Gladys. 


AVENUE   GERARD,    NO.  9.  147 

Walter  saw  there  was  but  one  thing  to  be  clone. 
He  turned  to  the  postman. 

"  I  know  who  they  are,"  he  said  rapidly  in  French, 
with  the  instinctive  wish  to  save  this  little  lady,  small 
as  she  was,  from  being  made  the  subject  of  a  sensa- 
tional paragraph  in  some  penny  paper.  "  I  have  seen 
them  before.  They  had  come  to  see  my  aunt,  who  is 
very  kind  to  her  country-people,  and  were  crying  be- 
cause she  was  out.  It  will  be  all  right.  Don't  let 
yourself  be  late.     I'll  look  after  them." 

And  relieved  in  his  mind  the  postman  trotted  off. 

Walter  turned  to  Gladys  again. 

"/live  at  No.  9,"  he  said.  "Those  ladies  are  my 
aunt  and  my  sister.  So  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is 
to  come  in  with  me  and  get  warm.  And  when  my 
aunt  comes  home  you  shall  tell  us  all  your  troubles, 
and  we  will  see  what  to  do." 

"  And  you  won't  give  us  to  the  police  ? "  asked 
Gladys,  with  a  sudden  misgiving.  "  We've  not  done 
anything  naughty.     Will  the  ladies  come  soon  ?  " 

For  though  on  the  first  impulse  she  had  flown  to 
Walter  with  full  confidence,  she  now  somehow  felt 
a  little  frightened  of  him.  Perhaps  his  being  on  such 
good  terms  with  the  postman,  whose  uniform  vaguely 
recalled  a  policeman  to  her  excited  imagination,  or 
his  speaking  French  so  easily  and  quickly,  had  made 
her  feel  rather  less  sure  of  him.  "You  won't  give  us 
to  the  police  ?  "  she  repeated. 

Walter  could  hardly  help  smiling. 

u0f  course  not,"  he  answered.  "Come  now,  you 
must   trust  me  and  not  be  afraid.     Give  me  your 


148  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

hand,  my  little  man ;  or  stay,  he's  very  tired,  I'll 
carry  him  in." 

And  he  lifted  Roger  in  his  arms,  while  Gladys, 
greatly  to  her  satisfaction,  walked  qnietly  beside 
them,  her  confidence  completely  restored. 

" He's  very  polite,  and  he  sees  I'm  big"  she  said 
to  herself  as  she  followed  him  into  the  court,  past  the 
porter's  bright  little  room,  from  whence  that  person 
put  out  his  head  to  wish  Walter  a  respectful  "  good- 
evening,"  keeping  to  himself  the  reflection  which 
explains  so  many  mysteries  to  our  friends  across  the 
water,  that  "the  English  are  really  very  eccentric. 
One  never  knows  what  they  will  be  doing  next." 


CHAPTER   XL 

Walter's  tea-party. 

"  They  felt  very  happy  and  content  and  went  indoors  and  sat  to 
the  table  and  had  their  dinner."  —  The  Almond  Tree. 

Brothers  Grimm. 

Rosamond  and  her  aunt  had  a  good  many  commis- 
sions to  do  that  afternoon.  They  had  not  long  before 
this  changed  their  house,  and  there  were  still  a  great 
many  pretty  things  to  choose  and  to  buy  for  the  new 
rooms.  But  though  it  was  pleasant  work  it  was 
tiring,  and  it  was,  too,  so  exceedingly  cold  that  even 
in  the  comfortable  carriage  with  its  hot-water  bottles 
and  fur  rugs,  the  young  girl  shivered  and  said  to  her 
aunt  she  would  be  glad  to  be  at  home  again,  and  to 
get  a  nice  hot  cup  of  tea. 

"  Yes,"  said  her  aunt,  "  and  it  is  getting  late.  At 
this  time  of  year  the  days  seem  to  close  in  so  sud- 
denly." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is  going  to  be  a  severe  winter.  I  do 
so  dislike  severe  winters,  Auntie,"  said  Rosamond, 
who  had  spent  some  part  of  her  life  in  a  warm 
climate. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  her  aunt,  with  a  sigh,  "  it  makes 
everything  so  much  harder  for  the  poor.  I  really 
think  it  is  true  that  cold  is  worse  to  endure  than 
hunger." 

149 


150  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

"You  are  so  kind,  Auntie  dear,"  said  Rosamond. 
"  You  really  seem  as  if  you  felt  other  people's  suffer- 
ings your  own  self.  I  think  it  is  the  little  children 
I  am  most  sorry  for.  Perhaps  because  I  have  been 
such  a  spoilt  child  myself  !  I  cannot  imagine  how  it 
would  be  possible  to  live  through  what  some  children 
have  to  live  through.  Above  all,  unkindness  and 
neglect.     That  reminds  me  —  " 

She  was  going  to  tell  her  aunt  of  the  children  she 
had  seen  at  Madame  Nestor's,  and  of  the  sharp  way 
the  young  woman  in  the  shop  had  spoken  to  them, 
but  just  at  that  moment  the  carriage  turned  into  the 
courtyard  of  their  house,  and  the  footman  sprung 
down  and  opened  the  door. 

"  I  wonder  what  put  those  children  in  my  head 
just  now?"  thought  Rosamond,  as  she  followed  her 
aunt  slowly  up  the  wide  thickly-carpeted  staircase. 
"  I  suppose  it  was  talking  of  the  poor  people,  though 
they  were  not  exactly  poor." 

But  a  moment  or  two  later  she  really  felt  as  if  her 
thoughts  had  taken  shape,  or  that  she  was  dreaming, 
when  she  caught  sight  of  the  most  unexpected  picture 
that  presented  itself  to  herself  and  her  aunt  on  open- 
ing the  door  of  their  pretty  "little  drawing-room." 

The  room  was  brightly  lighted,  the  fire  was  burn- 
ing cheerily  —  not  far  from  it  stood  the  low  afternoon 
tea-table  covered  with  a  white  cloth  and  heaped  up 
with  plates  of  bread-and-butter  and  cakes  —  while  the 
tea-urn  sang  its  pleasant  murmur.  And  the  group 
round  the  table  ?  That  was  the  astonishing  part  of 
it.     Walter  was  having  a  tea-party! 


Walter  was  ha  vino  a  Tea-Party! — p.  150, 


Walter's  tea-party.  151 

For  an  instant  —  they  had  opened  the  door  softly 
and  he  was  very  much  taken  up  with  his  guests  — 
the  aunt  and  niece  stood  looking  on  without  any  one's 
hearing  them.  Walter  was  seated  in  a  big  arm-chair, 
and  perched  on  his  knee  was  a  very  tiny  little  boy  in 
an  English  sailor  dress.  He  was  a  pretty  fair  child, 
with  a  bright  pink  flush  on  his  face,  and  he  seemed 
exceedingly  4iappy  and  to  be  thoroughly  enjoying  the 
cup  of  hot  but  mild  tea  and  slice  of  cake  which  his 
host  was  pressing  on  him.  And  on  a  small  chair  just 
opposite  sat  a  pale-faced  dark-eyed  little  girl  with  an 
anxious  look  on  her  face,  yet  at  the  same  time  an 
expression  of  great  content.  No  wonder;  she  was 
only  seven  years  old !  Fancy  the  relief  it  must  have 
been  to  delicate  little  Gladys  to  find  herself  again  in 
a  room  like  this  —  to  have  the  comfort  of  the  delicious 
fire  and  the  food  even,  to  which  she  was  accustomed 
—  above  all,  to  see  Roger  safe  and  happy ;  if  only  it 
would  last ! 

"This  tea  isn't  too  strong  for  him,  is  it,  Gladys  ?  " 
Walter  said. 

And  Gladys  leaning  forward  examined  it  with  a 
motherly  air,  that  was  both  pathetic  and  amusing. 

"  No,  that's  quite  right.  That's  just  like  what  he 
had  it  at  home." 

The  aunt  and  niece  looked  at  each  other. 

"  Who  can  they  be  ? "  whispered  the  aunt ;  but 
Rosamond,  though  she  had  scarcely  seen  the  faces  of 
the  children  in  the  Rue  Verte,  seemed  to  know  by 
instinct.  But  before  she  had  time  to  speak,  Walter 
started  up;  the  whisper,  low  as  it  was,  had  caught 


152  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

his  ear  and  Gladys's  too.  She  too  got  up  from  her 
seat  and  stood  facing  the  ladies,  while  her  cheeks 
grew  still  paler,  and  the  anxious  look  quite  chased 
away  the  peaceful  satisfaction  from  her  poor  little 
face. 

"  Auntie  !  "  said  Walter,  and  in  his  voice  too  there 
was  a  little  anxiety,  not  lost  on  Gladys.  For  though 
he  knew  his  aunt  to  be  as  kind  as  any  ©ne  could  be, 
still  it  was  a  rather  "  cool "  thing,  he  felt,  to  have 
brought  in  two  small  people  he  had  found  in  the 
street  without  knowing  anything  whatever  about 
them,  and  to  be  giving  them  tea  in  her  drawing-room. 
"Auntie,"  he  repeated,  "this  young  lady,  Miss  Gladys 
Bertram,  and  her  little  brother  had  come  to  see  you, 
to  ask  your  help.  I  found  them  waiting  in  the  street, 
the  concierge  had  told  them  you  were  out ;  it  was 
bitterly  cold,  and  they  had  come  a  very  long  way. 
I  brought  them  in  and  gave  them  tea,  as  you  see." 

His  face  had  flushed  as  he  spoke,  and  there  was  a 
tone  of  appeal  in  his  voice ;  he  could  not  before 
Gladys  add  what  was  on  his  lips :  "  You  are  not 
vexed  with  me  ?  " 

"  You  did  quite  right,  my  dear  boy,"  said  his  aunt 
heartily.  "  Rosamond  and  I  are  cold  and  tired  too. 
We  should  like  a  cup  of  tea  also,  and  then  these 
little  friends  of  ours  will  tell  us  all  they  have  to  tell." 

"I  have  seen  them  before,"  added  Walter  in  a 
lower  tone,  going  nearer  his  aunt  under  pretext  of 
getting  her  a  chair.  "  You  remember  the  children 
on  the  Boulevards  I  told  you  about  the  other  day? 
It  is  they." 


Walter's  tea-party.  153 

But  Gladys,  who  till  then  had  stood  still,  gazing 
at  the  ladies  without  speaking,  suddenly  sprang 
forward  and  almost  threw  herself  into  "  Auntie's  " 
arms. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you ! "  she  exclaimed, 
bursting  into  tears.  "  I  was  just  thinking  perhaps 
you'd  be  vexed  with  him"  she  pointed  to  Walter, 
"  and  he's  been  so  kind,  and  it  is  so  nice  here.  Oh, 
we  couldn't,  we  couldn't  go  back  there  !  "  and  clasping 
her  new  friend  still  more  closely  she  sobbed  as  if  her 
overcharged  heart  would  break. 

Auntie  and  Rosamond  soothed  her  with  the  kindest 
words  they  could  find,  and  then  Auntie,  who  always 
had  her  wits  about  her,  reminded  Gladys  that  they 
too  were  very  anxious  to  have  a  cup  of  tea,  would 
she  help  to  pour  it  out?  She  evidently  knew  all 
about  it,  whereupon  Gladys's  sobs  and  tears  stopped 
as  if  by  magic,  and  she  was  again  the  motherly 
capable  little  girl  they  had  seen  her  on  entering  the 
room. 

Tea  over  —  before  thinking  of  taking  off  their 
bonnets  —  Auntie  and  Rosamond,  and  Walter  too, 
made  Gladys  tell  them  all  she  had  to  tell.  It  was  a 
little  difficult  to  follow  at  first,  for,  like  a  child,  she 
mixed  up  names  and  events  in  rather  a  kaleidoscope 
fashion.  But  at  last  by  dint  of  patience  and  encour- 
agement and  several  "beginnings  again  at  the  begin- 
ning," they  got  a  clear  idea  of  the  whole  strange  and 
yet  simple  story,  all  of  which  that  was  known  to  Gladys 
herself,  you,  my  little  readers,  already  know,  except 
the  history  of  the  last  miserable  day  in  the  Rue  Verte, 


154  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

when  Anna's  temper  had  got  the  better  of  her  pru- 
dence to  such  an  extent  as  to  make  Gladys  feel  they 
could  bear  it  no  longer.  She  had  struck  them  both 
in  her  passion  that  very  morning  when  Franchise 
was  at  the  market,  and  wild  with  fear,  more  for 
Roger  than  herself,  Gladys  had  set  off  to  ask  help 
and  advice  from  the  only  people  she  knew  of  in  all 
great  Paris  who  could  understand  her  story. 

"  Except  him"  added  Gladys,  nodding  at  Walter, 
"but  we  didn't  know  where  he  lived.  I  couldn't 
write  to  Miss  Susan,  for  I  hadn't  any  paper  or  en- 
velopes. I  thought  I'd  wait  till  Mr.  'Dolph  came 
home  and  that  he'd  let  me  write,  but  I  don't  know 
when  he's  coming,  and  I  hadn't  any  money,  and  if 
she  —  oh !  if  she  had  struck  Roger  again  it  might 
have  killed  him.  He's  so  little,  you  know,"  and 
Gladys  shuddered. 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
Auntie  turned  to  Walter. 

"The  first  thing  to  be  done,  it  seems  to  me,  is  for 
you  to  go  to  the  Rue  Verte  to  tell  the  Nestors  — 
Madame  Nestor,  that  is  to  say  —  where  these  little 
people  are.  She  will  be  very  uneasy,  I  fear,  poor 
woman." 

"  Anna  won't  tell  her,  I  don't  think,"  said  Gladys. 
"Poor  Mrs.  Nest  — she  is  so  kind.  I  shouldn't  like 
her  to  be  unhappy." 

"And,"  continued  the  lady,  "you  must  ask  for  the 
children's  clothes." 

Gladys's  eyes  glistened. 

"  Do  you  mean,  are  you  going  to  let  us  stay  here  ?" 


Walter's  tea-party.  155 

"she  said;  "I  mean  till  to-morrow,  perhaps,  till  Miss 
Susan  can  come  ?  " 

"Where  else  could  you  go,  my  dears?  "  said  Auntie 
kindly. 

"I  don't  know;  I  —  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  get 
us  a  little  room  somewhere,  and  Miss  Susan  would 
pay  it  when  she  comes.  I  thought  perhaps  you'd 
send  her  a  tele — ,you  know  what  I  mean,  and  perhaps 
she  could  come  for  us  that  way.  It's  so  quick,  only 
it  costs  a  great  deal,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

Auntie  and  Rosamond  had  hard  work  to  prevent 
themselves  laughing  at  this  queer  idea  of  Gladys's, 
but  when  her  mistake  was  explained  to  her,  she  took 
it  very  philosophically. 

"  Then  do  you  think  I  should  write  to  Miss  Susan 
to-day  ?  "  said  Gladys.  "  Yoiill  help  me,  won't  you?  " 
she  added,  turning  to  Rosamond.  "  I  don't  know 
very  well  how  to  write  the  address." 

"  Of  course  I  will  help  you,  dear,"  said  Rosamond, 
but  her  aunt  interrupted. 

"  I  do  not  think  little  Gladys  need  write  to-night," 
she  said.  "  Indeed,  perhaps  it  may  be  as  well  for  me 
to  write  for  her  to  the  lady  she  speaks  of.  But  now, 
Walter,  you  had  better  go  off  at  once,  and  bring  back 
the  children's  belongings  with  you.  What  were  you 
going  to  say,  dear?"  for  Gladys  seemed  as  if  she 
were  going  to  speak. 

Gladys's  face  grew  red. 

"Anna  said  once  that  she  would  sell  our  big  trunk 
and  all  our  best  clothes —  I  mean  she  said  Mrs.  Nest 
would  —  to  get  money  for  nil  we  had  cost  them.     But 


156  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

I'm  sure  Mrs.  Nest  wouldn't.  And  when  Papa  comes 
he'll  pay  everything." 

The  elder  lady  looked  at  Walter. 

"  Try  and  bring  away  everything  with  you,"  she 
said.  "  Take  Louis,  so  that  he  may  help  to  carry  out 
the  boxes.     Do  your  best  anyway." 

It  turned  out  easier  than  Auntie  had  feared,  for 
Walter  found  Adolphe  Nestor  already  returned,  and 
in  a  state  of  frantic  anxiety  about  the  children. 
Knowing  that  they  could  not  be  in  better  hands  than 
those  in  which  they  had  placed  themselves,  he  was 
only  too  thankful  to  let  them  remain  there,  and  gave 
Walter  all  the  information  he  could  about  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Marton,  who  had  confided  the  children  to  his 
mother's  care. 

"  She  can  tell  you  all  about  the  family  better  than 
I,"  he  said.  "  I  think  even  she  has  the  address  of 
Madame  Marton's  mother,  where  her  cousin  was  so 
long  nurse.  Oh,  they  are  in  every  way  most  respect- 
able, and  indeed  one  can  see  by  the  children  them- 
selves that  they  are  little  gentlepeople.  There  must 
be  something  sadly  amiss  for  the  father  not  to  have 
come  for  them.  I  fear  even  that  he  is  perhaps 
dead." 

Then  he  went  on  to  tell  Walter  that  he  had  told 
Anna  he  could  no  longer  keep  her  in  his  employment, 
and  that  all  was  at  an  end  with  her. 

"  And  indeed,"  he  said,  his  round  face  getting  very 
red,  "  I  think  no  man  would  be  happy  with  a  wife 
with  such  a  temper,"  in  which  Walter,  who  at  eigh- 
teen considered  himself  very  wise,  cordially  agreed. 


Walter's  tea-party.  157 

Aclolphe  had  not  told  his  mother  of  the  children's 
flight,  for  she  was  still  very  feverish  and  excitable ; 
but  he  said  she  would  be  relieved  to  know  where  they 
had  found  refuge.  And  then  he  gave  Walter  the 
English  money  which  Mr.  Marton  had  left  for  their 
use,  and  which  his  mother  had  kept  unbroken. 

Walter  took  it,  though  reluctantly,  but  he  saw 
that  it  would  have  hurt  Adolphe  to  refuse  it ;  and  he 
also  reflected  that  there  were  other  ways  in  which  the 
Nestors  could  be  rewarded  for  their  kindness.  And 
so  he  left  the  Rue  Verte  with  all  the  children's  be- 
longings safely  piled  on  the  top  of  the  cab,  and  with 
a  much  more  friendly  feeling  to  the  upholsterer  than 
he  had  expected  to  have,  promising  to  let  him  know 
the  result  of  the  inquiries  his  aunt  intended  immedi- 
ately to  set  on  foot ;  and  also  assuring  him  that  they 
should  not  leave  Paris  without  coming  to  say  good- 
bye to  him  and  his  kind  old  mother. 

When  the  two  tired  but  happy  little  people  were 
safely  in  bed  that  night,  their  three  new  friends  sat 
round  the  fire  to  have  a  good  talk  about  them. 

"It  is  a  very  strange  affair,  really,"  said  Walter. 
"  I'm  more  than  half  inclined  to  agree  with  Nestor 
that  the  father  must  be  dead." 

"But  even  then,"  said  Auntie,  "the  friends  in 
England  who  had  charge  of  them  would  have  known 

fc>  o 

it,  and  would  have  sent  to  inquire  about  them." 

"That  'Miss  Susan,'  as  they  call  her,  seems  to  me 
to  have  thought  of  nothing  but  the  easiest  way  to 
get  rid  of  them,"  said  Rosamond  indignantly.  "She 
should  never  have  let  them  start  without  a  letter  or 


158  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

a  telegram  of  Captain  Bertram's  being  actually  in 
Paris,  and,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out  from  little  Gladys, 
she  had  not  got  that  —  only  of  his  arrival  at  Mar- 
seilles and  his  intention  of  coming." 

"  Did  Gladys  mention  Marseilles  ?  Does  she  know 
where  it  is  ?  "  asked  Walter. 

"  Yes,  she  said  the  old  lady  whom  they  were  very 
fond  of  showed  it  to  her  on  the  map,  and  explained 
that  it  was  the  town  in  France  '  at  which  the  big 
ships  from  India  stopped.'  Gladys  is  quite  clear 
about  all  that.  She  is  a  very  clever  child  in  some 
ways,  though  in  others  she  seems  almost  a  baby." 

"Nothing  about  her  would  surprise  me  after  her 
managing  to  hud  her  way  here,"  said  Auntie.  "Just 
fancy  her  leading  that  baby,  Roger,  all  the  way  here 
from  the  Rue  Verte  !  " 

"  Do  you  know  how  she  did  ? "  said  Rosamond. 
"  She  tore  a  little  piece  of  paper  off  the  edge  of  a 
newspaper  and  wrote  the  address, '  Avenue  Gerard  9,' 
on  it  with  an  end  of  pencil  she  found  lying  about ; 
and  she  showed  this  bit  of  paper  to  anybody  'kind- 
looking  '  whom  they  met,  and  thus  she  got  directed. 
Was  it  not  a  good  idea?  She  said  if  she  had  ashed 
the  way  the  French  people  would  not  have  under- 
stood her  speaking." 

"  Then  what  do  3^011  decide  to  do,  Auntie  ?  "  said 
Walter.  "  Shall  I  telegraph  in  the  morning  to  this 
Miss  Susan,  or  will  you  write  ?  " 

Auntie  hesitated. 

"J  don't  see  how  you  can  do  either  with  much 
chance  of  it  reaching  her,"  said  Rosamond.  "  Gladys, 
you  know,  said  she  was  going  to  be  married." 


Walter's  tea-party.  159 

"  Well,  supposing  in  the  first  place,"  said  Auntie, 
"  we  were  to  telegraph  to  the  principal  hotels  at 
Marseilles  and  ask  if  Captain  Bertram  is  there  —  it 
would  do  no  harm  —  it  is  just  possible  that  by  some 
mistake  he  is  all  this  time  under  the  belief  that  the 
children  are  still  in  England." 

"  That's  not  likely,"  said  Walter ;  "  no  one  would 
stay  on  at  a  hotel  in  Marseilles  all  this  time  for  no 
reason  —  three  weeks,  it  must  be.  But  it's  not  a  bad 
idea  to  telegraph  there  first." 

"  Gladys  would  be  so  pleased  if  it  proved  not  to 
be  necessary  to  send  to  '  Miss  Susan '  at  all,"  said 
Rosamond,  who  seemed  to  have  obtained  the  little 
girl's  full  confidence. 

"  Well,  we  shall  see,"  said  Auntie.  "  In  the  mean- 
time the  children  are  safe,  and  I  hope  happy." 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Marton  must  be  in  India  by  this 
time,"  said  Walter.  "  They  don't  seem  to  have  been 
to  blame  in  the  least  —  they  did  the  best  they  could. 
It  might  be  as  well  to  write  to  them  if  we  had  their 
address." 

"  Perhaps  old  Madame  Nestor  may  have  it,"  said 
Rosamond.  "  The  maid  —  her  niece  or  cousin,  which- 
ever it  is  —  may  have  left  it  with  her." 

"  We  can  ask,"  said  Auntie.  "  But  it  would  take 
a  good  while  to  hear  from  India,  and  very  likely  they 
would  have  very  little  to  tell,  for  there  is  one  thing 
that  strikes  me,"  she  went  on  thoughtfully,  "  which 
is,  the  Mart  cms  cannot  have  thought  there  was  any- 
thing wrong  when  they  got  to  Marseilles,  otherwise 
they  would  have  written  or  telegraphed  to  the  Rue 
Verte,  and  certainly  to  the  friends  in  England." 


160  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

She  looked  up  as  if  to  read  in  the  faces  of  her  two 
young  companions  how  this  struck  them. 

"  That's  true,"  said  Walter. 

"  But  it  only  adds  to  the  mystery,"  said  Rosamond. 

"  Supposing,"  said  Walter,  "  that  the  address  has 
been  lost  —  that  of  the  Nestors,  I  mean  —  and  that 
all  this  time  Captain  Bertram  is  hunting  up  and 
down  Paris  for  his  children  ?  " 

"  That  does  not  seem  to  me  likely,"  said  Auntie. 
"  He  would  have  telegraphed  back  to  England." 

"Where  it  wouldn't  have  been  known,  Rosamond," 
said  Walter.     "  Rather  to  Mr.  Marton  in  India." 

"  If  he  had  his  address,"  said  Walter  again. 

"  Well,  anyway  that  could  be  got  in  England," 
said  Auntie,  a  little  impatiently.  "No,  no,  Walter, 
it  can't  be  that.  Why,  supposing  Captain  Bertram 
were  here  looking  for  his  children,  the  police  could 
have  found  them  for  him  in  a  couple  of  days.  No ; 
I  very  much  fear  there  is  more  wrong  than  a  mere 
mistake.  Poor  little  dears  —  they  still  seem  to  have 
such  unbounded  faith  in  '  Papa's  coming.'  I  only 
trust  no  harm  has  come  over  him,  poor  man." 

Walter  telegraphed  the  next  morning  in  his  aunt's 
name  to  the  two  principal  hotels  at  Marseilles,  to 
inquire  if  Captain  Bertram  was  or  had  been  there. 
From  one  came  back  the  answer,  "No  such  name 
known."  From  the  other  the  information  that  Cap- 
tain Bertram  had  not  yet  returned  from  Nice,  and 
that  letters  and  his  luggage  were  waiting  for  him  at 
the  hotel. 

"  Just  read  this,  aunt,"  he  said,  hurrying  into  the 


"Walter's  tea-party.  161 

drawing-room,  and  Auntie  did  so.  Then  she  looked 
up. 

"It  is  as  I  feared,  I  feel  sure,"  she  said.  "Walter, 
you  must  go  to  Nice  yourself,  and  make  inquiries." 

"  I  shall  start  to-night,"  said  the  young  fellow 
readily. 

"  Stay  a  moment,"  said  Auntie  again.  "  We  have 
the  Times  advertisements  for  the  last  few  days ;  it 
may  be  as  well  to  look  over  them." 

"  And  the  Saturday  papers,  with  all  the  births, 
marriages,  and  deaths  of  the  week  put  in  at  once," 
said  Rosamond.  "  You  take  the  Times,"''  she  added 
to  her  brother,  going  to  a  side-table  where  all  the 
papers  were  lying  in  a  pile,  "  and  I'll  look  through 
the  others." 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  silence  in  the  room. 
Gladys  and  Roger  were  very  happy  with  some  of 
their  toys,  which  they  had  been  allowed  to  unpack 
in  the  dining-room.  "  Bertram,  Bertram,  no,  I  see 
nothing.  And  there's  no  advertisement  for  two  lost 
cherubs  in  the  agony  columns  either,"  said  Walter. 

Suddenly  Rosamond  gave  a  little  exclamation. 

"  Have  you  found  anything  ?  "  asked  Auntie. 

"Nothing  about  Captain  Bertram,"  she  replied. 
"  But  I  think  this  must  be  the  old  lady  they  lived 
with.  '  Alicia,  widow  of  the  late  Major-General 
Lacy,'  etc.  etc.,  '  at  Market-Lilford  on  the  16th  No- 
vember, aged  69.'  I  am  sure  it. is  she,  for  Gladys's 
second  name  is  'Alicia,'  and  she  told  me  it  was  '  after 
Mrs.  Lacy.'  " 

"  Poor  old  lady  —  she  must  have  been  very  kind 


162  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

and  good.  That  may  explain  '  Miss  Susan's  '  appar- 
ent indifference.  It  was  fully  a  fortnight  ago,  you 
see."' 

"  Must  I  tell  Gladys  ?  "  said  Rosamond. 

"  Not  yet,  I  think,"  said  Auntie.  "  We  may  have 
worse  to  tell  her,  poor  child." 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  would  be  worse,"  said  the 
young  girl.     "  They  can't  remember  their  father." 

"  Still,  they  have  always  been  looking  forward  to 
his  coming.  If  it  ends  in  good  news,  it  will  make 
them  —  Gladys  especially  —  very  happy." 

"  As  for  Roger,  perfect  happiness  is  already  his," 
said  Rosamond.  "  He  asks  no  more  than  weak  tea 
and  bread-and-butter,  Gladys  always  at  hand,  a  good 
fire,  and  nobody  to  scold  him." 


CHAPTER   XII. 

PAPA   AT   LAST. 

"  And  now,  indeed,  there  lacked  nothing  to  their  happiness  as 
long  as  they  lived." —  The  Golden  Bird. 

Brothers  Grimm. 

Walter  went  off  to  Nice  that  night.  The  children 
were  not  told  distinctly  the  object  of  his  journey. 
They  were  allowed  to  know  that  he  might  be  passing 
near  "  the  big  town  by  the  sea,"  which  poor  Mrs. 
Lacy,  in  her  kind  anxiety  to  make  all  clear,  had 
pointed  out  to  Gladys  on  the  map ;  but  that  was  all, 
for  Auntie  wished  to  save  them  any  more  of  the 
nervous  suspense  and  waiting  of  which  they  had  had 
so  much.  She  wished,  too,  to  save  them  any  suffer- 
ing that  could  be  avoided,  from  the  fear  of  the  sor- 
row, really  worse  than  any  they  had  yet  known, 
which  she  often  dreaded  might  be  in  store  for  them. 

"  Let  us  make  them  as  happy  as  ever  we  can  for 
these  few  days,"  she  said  to  Rosamond.  "  Nothing 
like  happiness  for  making  children  strong  and  well, 
and  they  will  soon  forget  all  their  past  troubles." 

And  Rosamond  was  only  too  ready  to  give  her 
assistance  to  the  kind  plan,  so  that  in  all  their  lives 
Gladys  and  Roger  had  never  been  so  much  made  of. 
The  ladies  were  too  wise  to  overdo  it ;  they  found 
too  that  it  was  very  easy  to  amuse  these  simple  little 

163 


164  TWO   LITTLE    WAIFS. 

creatures,  who  had  never  known  since  they  were 
born  the  slightest  approach  to  "  spoiling "  or  indul- 
gence. Everything  pleased  them.  The  mere  living 
in  the  pretty  luxurious  house  —  the  waking  up  in 
the  morning  to  the  sight  of  the  bright  dainty  room, 
where  already  a  cheerful  little  fire  would  be  blazing, 
for  the  weather  continued  exceedingly  cold.  The 
tempting  "  little  breakfast "  of  real  bread-and-butter 
and  tea  —  for  both  Gladys  and  Roger  found  they  had 
got  very  tired  of  chocolate  —  the  capacious  bath  and 
abundance  of  hot  water  —  above  all,  the  kind  and 
loving  and  gentle  looks  and  words  which  surrounded 
them  —  all  these  would  have  been  enough  to  make 
them  happy.  And  a  drive  in  Auntie's  beautiful 
carriage,  either  into  the  centre  of  the  town  "  to  see 
the  shops,"  or  now  and  then  to  visit  one  of  the 
wonderful  old  churches  with  their  mysterious  height 
of  roof  and  softly  brilliant  windows,  and  sometimes, 
still  better,  the  beautiful  swelling  organ  music  which 
seemed  to  them  to  come  from  nowhere,  yet  to  be 
everywhere.  Ah !  those  expeditions  were  a  delight 
Gladys  had  never  even  dreamt  of,  and  which  little 
Roger  could  scarcely  take  in.  They  very  much 
changed  their  opinion  of  Paris  in  those  days,  and  no 
longer  called  it  "  an  ugly  dirty  town,"  as  it  had 
seemed  to  them  in  their  first  experience  at  the  Rue 
Verte. 

"  And  when  Papa  comes,  we'll  take  him  to  see  all 
these  beautiful  places,  won't  we  ?  "  said  Gladys,  for 
with  rest  and  peace  of  mind  had  come  back  all  her 
pretty  childish  hope  and  trust  in  that  "  coming." 


PAPA   AT   LAST.  165 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Rosamond.  But  then  she  began 
quickty  to  speak  to  the  little  girl  of  the  pretty 
colours  of  the  still  remaining  beech  leaves  in  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne,  through  which  for  a  change  they 
were  that  day  driving.  For  she  could  not  reply  with 
any  confidence  in  her  tone,  and  she  did  not  want  the 
child  to  find  out  her  misgiving.  Walter  had  been, 
gone  three  days  and  had  written  twice  —  once  a 
hurried  word  to  tell  of  his  arrival,  once  the  following 
day  to  tell  of  failure.  He  had  been  to  two  or  three 
of  the  hotels  but  had  found  no  traces  of  Captain 
Bertram,  but  there  still  remained  several  others,  and 
he  hoped  to  send  by  his  next  letter  if  not  good  yet 
anyway  more  certain  news. 

So  Auntie  still  put  off  writing  to  "  Miss  Susan," 
for  though  since  seeing  the  announcement  of  Mrs. 
Lacy's  death  she  did  not  blame  her  as  much  as  at 
first,  she  yet  could  not  feel  it  probable  that  the  young 
lady  was  suffering  great  anxiety. 

"  In  any  case  I  had  better  wait  till  Walter  tells  us 
something"  she  said  to  Rosamond.  "And  when  I  do 
write  I  do  not  know  how  to  address  the  letter. 
Gladdie  is  sure  she  was  to  be  married  a  very  few 
days  after  they  left,  but  she  cannot  remember  the 
name  of  the  gentleman,  whom  she  has  only  seen  once 
or  twice,  as  he  lived  at  a  distance,  and  had  made 
Miss  Susan's  acquaintance  away  from  her  home." 

"  Address  to  her  maiden  name  —  it  would  be  sent 
after  her,"  suggested  Rosamond. 

"  But  Gladdie  is  not  sure  what  that  is,"  replied 
Auntie,  half  laughing.     "She  doesn't  know  if  it  is 


166  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

'  Lacy  '  or  if  she  had  a  different  name  from  her  aunt. 
She  is  such  a  baby  in  some  ways.  I  am  sure  she  has 
not  the  slightest  idea  what  our  surnames  are.  You 
are  'Rosamond '  and  I  am  'Auntie.'' " 

"  Or  '  Madame  '  when  she  speaks  of  you  to  the 
servants.  She  is  getting  on  so  nicely  with  her 
French,  Auntie.  That  reminds  me  Louis  has  been 
to  the  Rue  Verte,  and  has  brought  back  word  that 
Madame  Nestor  is  much  better,  and  would  be  so 
delighted  to  see  the  children  any  day  we  can  send 
them." 

"  Or  take  them,"  said  Auntie.  "  I  would  not  like 
them  to  go  without  us  the  first  time,  for  fear  they 
should  feel  at  all  frightened.  And  yet  it  is  right  for 
them  to  go.  They  must  always  be  grateful  to  Ma- 
dame Nestor,  who  did  her  very  best  for  them." 

"  Gladys  confided  to  me  she  would  be  a  little 
afraid  of  going  back,  though  she  knows  that  Anna  is 
no  longer  there.  But  she  says  she  will  feel  as  if  they 
were  going  back  to  stay  there,  and  as  if  this  would 
turn  out  to  be  only  a  beautiful  dream." 

"  Poor  little  dear,"  said  Auntie. 

"  And  she's  going  to  take  her  new  doll  —  both  to 
show  her  off,  and  that  she  may  feel  she  isn't  a 
dream !  She  has  such  funny  ideas  sometimes. 
Auntie  —  " 

"What,  dear?" 

"  If  Walter  can't  find  the  father  —  I  suppose  I 
should  say  if  he  is  dead —  what  is  to  be  done '?" 

"  We  must  find  out  all  we  can  —  through  that 
Miss  Susan,  I  suppose  —  as  to  who  are  the  children's 


PAPA   AT   LAST.  167 

guardians,  and  what  money  they  have,  and  all 
about  it." 

"  I  wish  we  could  adopt  them,"  said  Rosamond. 
"  We're  rich  enough." 

"  Yes ;  but  that  is  not  the  only  question.  You  are 
almost  sure  to  marry." 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Rosamond,  but  her  face 
flushed  a  little. 

"  And  Walter,  too,  some  day." 

"  Oh,  Auntie  !    Walter  !    Why  he's  only  eighteen." 

"Well,  all  the  same,  time  goes  on,  and  adopting 
children  often  causes  complications.  Besides,  it  is 
not  likely  that  they  have  no  relations." 

"  Well,  we  shall  see  what  the  next  letter  says," 
said  Rosamond. 

It  was  not  a  letter  after  all,  but  a  telegram,  and 
this  was  what  it  said :  — 

"  Found  Bertram.  Will  explain  all.  Returning 
to-morrow." 

The  aunt  and  niece  looked  at  each  other. 

"  He  might  have  said  a  little  more,"  said  the  latter. 
"  This  is  only  enough  to  rouse  our  curiosity." 

"  We  must  say  nothing  to  the  children  yet," 
decided  Auntie. 

"  I  do  hope,  as  he  is  alive,"  said  Rosamond,  "  that 
he's  a  nice  good  sort  of  man.  If  he  weren't,  that 
would  be  worse  than  anything  —  having  to  give  up 
the  children  to  him,"  and  she  looked  quite  unhappy. 

"Don't  let  your  imagination  run  away  with  you 
so,  my  dear  child,"  said  Auntie.  "  It's  very  unlikely 
that  he's  not  nice  in  every  way.     Remember  what 


168  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

Gladys  says  of  his  kind  letters,  and  how  fond  Mrs. 
Lacy  was  of  him,  and  how  she  always  taught  them 
to  look  forward  to  his  return.  No ;  my  fears  are 
about  his  health,  poor  fellow." 

The  children  went  the  next  morning  with  Rosa- 
mond and  her  maid  to  see  Madame  Nestor,  and 
Rosamond  brought  back  with  her  to  show  her  aunt 
a  letter  Madame  Nestor  had  just  received,  which 
threw  a  little  light  on  one  part  of  the  subject.  It 
was  from  Leonie  telling  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Marton's 
arrival  at  their  destination,  and  alluding  to  the  chil- 
dren as  if  she  had  no  doubt  that  they  had  only  been 
left  two  or  three  days  at  the  Rue  Verte.  "  Mon- 
sieur," meaning  Mr.  Marton,  "was  so  glad,"  she 
wrote,  "  to  find  at  Marseilles  that  the  children's  Papa 
was  going  on  to  Paris  almost  at  once.  He  had  left 
a  letter  for  Captain  Bertram  at  the  hotel,  as  he  had 
gone  to  Nice  for  a  day  or  two ;  and  Madame  had  only 
just  had  time  to  write  to  the  ladies  in  England  to 
tell  how  it  had  all  been.  And  she  was  writing  by 
this  mail  to  ask  for  news  of  the  "dear  little  things," 
as  she  called  Gladys  and  Roger.  "  They  had  thought 
of  them  all  the  way,  and  Madame  thanked  Madame 
Nestor  so  much  for  her  kindness.  She  —  Leonie  — 
hoped  very  much  she  would  see  them  again  some 
day.  Then  she  presented  her  compliments  to  her 
cousin  Adolphe,  and  promised  to  write  again  soon  — 
and  that  was  all." 

"  It  is  still  mysterious  enough,"  said  Auntie ; 
"but  it  shows  the  Martons  were  not  to  blame.  As 
Mr.  Marton  has  written  to  England  again,  we  shall 


PAPA   AT   LAST.  169 

probably  be  hearing  something  from  '  Miss  Susan ' 
before  long.  It  is  strange  she  has  not  written  before, 
as  she  has  had  the  Rue  Verte  address  all  this  time, 
I  suppose." 

And  here,  perhaps,  as  "  Miss  Susan  "  is  not,  to  my 
mind  nor  to  yours  either,  children,  I  feel  sure,  by  any 
means  the  most  interesting  person  in  this  little  story, 
though,  on  the  other  hand,  she  was  far  from  without 
good  qualities,  it  may  be  as  well  to  explain  how  it 
had  come  to  pass  that  nothing  had  been  heard  of 
her. 

Mrs.  Lacy  grew  rapidly  worse  after  the  children 
left,  but  with  her  gentle  unselfishness  she  would  not 
allow  her  niece's  marriage  to  be  put  off,  but  begged 
her  on  the  contrary  to  hasten  it,  which  was  done. 
Two  da}rs  after  it  had  taken  place,  Susan,  who  had 
gone  away  for  a  very  short  honeymoon,  was  recalled. 
She  never  left  Mrs.  Lacy  again  till  she  died.  I  think 
the  saddest  part  of  dying  for  the  dear  old  lady  was 
over  when  she  had  said  good-b}~e  to  her  little  favour- 
ites. For  some  time  Susan  felt  no  anxiety  about  the 
children,  for,  from  Marseilles,  she  had  heard  from 
young  Mrs.  Marton  of  Captain  Bertram's  not  having 
met  them  in  Paris,  and  of  the  arrangement  they  had 
been  obliged  to  make.  But,  that  arrived  at  Mar- 
seilles, they  had  found  he  had  gone  two  days  before 
to  Nice,  to  look  for  a  house  for  his  children,  the  land- 
lord said,  whom  he  was  going  to  Paris  to  fetch.  He 
had  left  all  his  luggage  there,  and  had  intended  to 
be  back  this  day  or  the  day  before,  the  landlord  was 
not  sure  which,  and  to  go  on  to  Paris.     No  doubt  he 


170  TWO    LITTLE    WAIFS. 

would  be  returning  that  same  evening,  only,  unfor- 
tunately, his  newly-arrived  friends  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mar- 
ton  would  have  gone,  but  he  faithfully  promised  to 
deliver  to  him  at  once  the  letter  Mr.  Marton  wrote 
and  left  for  him. 

"  It  seems  the  only  thing  to  do,"  added  young  Mrs. 
Marton,  "  and  I  do  hope  it  will  be  all  right.  Captain 
Bertram  must  have  mistaken  a  day.  Anyway  he  will 
know  where  to  find  the  children.  I  enclose  their 
address  to  }rou  too — at  least  I  will  get  it  from  Le'onie 
before  I  shut  this  letter,  for  I  do  not  remember  it,  so 
that  in  case  you  do  not  hear  soon  from  Captain  Ber- 
tram you  can  write  there." 

But  in  her  hurry  —  for  just  as  she  was  finishing 
the  letter,  her  husband  called  to  her  that  they  must 
be  off  —  the  young  lady  forgot  to  enclose  the  address  ! 
So  there  was  nowhere  for  Susan  to  write  to,  when,  as 
the  days  went  on  and  no  letter  came  from  Captain 
Bertram,  she  did  begin  to  grow  uneasy,  not  exactly 
about  the  children's  safety,  but  about  their  father 
having  gone  for  them. 

"  Still,"  she  said  to  her  husband,  "  if  he  had  not 
got  them  with  him,  he  would  have  written  to  ask 
where  they  were.  He  was  never  a  very  good  corre- 
spondent. But  I  wonder  he  hasn't  written  to  ask 
how  my  aunt  is.  I  hope  there  is  nothing  the  matter. 
I  hope  I  did  not  do  wrong  in  letting  them  go  without 
actually  knowing  of  his  being  in  Paris." 

Of  course  her  husband  assured  her  she  had  not. 
But  her  conscience  was  not  at  rest,  for  Susan  had 
grown  gentler  now  that  she  was  happily  married,  and 


PAPA   AT   LAST.  171 

she  was  softened  too  by  the  thought  of  her  kind 
aunt's  state.  All  through  the  last  sad  days  the 
children  kept  coming  into  her  mind,  and  though  Mrs. 
Lacy  was  too  weak  even  to  ask  about  them,  Susan 
felt  almost  guilty  when  she  finally  tried  to  thank  her 
for  her  goodness. 

kw  I  don't  deserve  it,"  she  thought,  "  I  was  not  kind 
to  the  two  human  beings  she  loved  best,"  and  she 
wrote  over  and  over  again  to  Captain  Bertram  at  the 
Marseilles  hotel,  begging  him  to  send  her  news  of  the 
children,  and  when  Mrs.  Marten's  letter  came  from 
India  repeating  that  she  had  before  written  from 
Marseilles,  but  with  of  course  no  further  news,  and 
no  mention  of  the  Paris  address,  poor  Susan  became 
so  unhappy  that  her  husband  promised  to  take  her 
over  to  make  inquiries  in  person  if  no  answer  came 
to  another  letter  he  sent  to  Marseilles  to  the  landlord 
of  the  hotel,  begging  him  to  tell  all  he  knew  of  Cap- 
tain Bertram's  movements.  This  letter  brought  a 
reply,  as  you  will  hear,  from  Captain  Bertram  him- 
self. 

It  was  evening  before  Walter  arrived.  Gladys 
and  Roger  were  in  bed  and  asleep.  Auntie  and 
Rosamond  were  waiting  for  him  with  the  greatest 
anxiety  to  hear  his  news.  He  looked  bright  and 
cheery  as  he  came  into  the  room,  still  enveloped  in 
his  wraps,  which  he  began  to  pull  off. 

"  It's  nice  and  warm  in  here,"  he  said ;  "  but,  oh, 
it's  so  cold  outside.  And  it  was  so  mild  and  sunny 
down  there ;  I  would  have  liked  to  stay  a  day  or  two 
longer.       It  was  to    please    him    I    hurried  back    so 


172  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

quickly  —  poor  man,  he  is  in  such  a  state  about  the 
children ! " 

"But,  Walter,  what  is  the  meaning  of  it  all? 
Why  has  he  not  come  himself  ?  " 

"  Do  you  like  him  ?  "  put  in  Rosamond. 

"  Awfully,"  said  Walter  boyishly.  "  He's  just 
what  you  would  expect  their  father  to  be.  But  I'm 
forgetting — I  haven't  told  you.  He's  been  dread- 
fully ill  — he  can  only  just  crawl  a  step  or  two.  And 
all  this  time  he's  not  had  the  slightest  misgiving 
about  the  children,  except  the  fear  of  not  living  to 
see  them  again  of  course.  He's  not  had  the  least 
doubt  of  their  being  safe  in  England ;  and  only  just 
lately,  as  he  began  to  get  well  enough  to  think  con- 
secutively, he  has  wondered  why  he  got  no  letters. 
He  was  just  going  to  try  to  write  to  that  place  — 
Market-Lilford — -when  I  got  there.  So  he  was  mys- 
tified too  !  But  we  got  to  the  bottom  of  it.  This 
was  how  it  was.  He  was  feeling  ill  at  Marseilles  — 
he  had  put  off  too  long  in  India  —  and  he  thought  it 
was  the  air  of  the  place,  and  as  he  had  some  days  to 
pass  before  he  was  due  in  Paris,  he  went  on  to  Nice, 
thinking  he'd  get  all  right  there  and  be  able  to  look 
about  for  a  house  if  he  liked  it.  But  instead  of  get- 
ting all  right  he  broke  down  completely.  He  wrote 
out  a  telegram  to  tell  Miss  Susan  that  he  was  ill,  and 
that  she  must  not  start  the  children.  It  would  have 
been  in  plenty  of  time  to  stop  them,  had  she  got  it, 
but  she  never  did." 

"  Never  got  it,"  repeated  both  ladies. 

"  No ;  the  waiter  told  him  it  was  all  right,  but  it 


PAPA    AT   LAST.  173 

wasn't.  His  writing'  was  so  bad  that  at  the  office 
they  couldn't  read  the  address,  and  the  message  was 
returned  from  London  the  next  day ;  and  by  that 
time  he  was  so  ill  that  the  doctor  wouldn't  allow 
them  to  ask  him  a  thing,  and  he  probably  wouldn't 
have  understood  them  if  they  had.  This,  you  see, 
he's  only  found  out  since  I  got  there.  The  doctor 
was  meaning  to  tell  him,  but  he  took  his  time  about 
it,  and  he  did  not  know  how  important  it  was.  So, 
in  a  way,  nobody  was  to  blame  except  that  Miss  Susan. 
That's  what  Bertram  says  himself ;  but  while  I  was 
there  he  telegraphed  to  Marseilles  for  his  letters. 
There  were  several  from  her,  and  the  last  so  frantic 
that  he's  writing  to  say  it's  all  right ;  especially  as 
she's  been  very  cut  up  about  the  poor  old  lady's 
death.  But  she  shouldn't  have  started  the  children 
till  he  telegraphed  from  Paris.  Besides,  he  had  told 
her  to  send  a  maid  with  them  for  the  journey.  It 
wasn't  the  Mar  tons'  fault ;  they  did  their  best." 

"Was  he  distressed  at  hearing  of  Mrs.  Lacy's 
death  ?  "  asked  Auntie. 

"Fery,"  said  Walter;  "  it  put  him  back,  the  doctor 
said ;  but  he'll  be  all  right  when  he  sees  the  children. 
If  you  had  seen  him  when  I  told  him  about  their 
finding  their  way  to  us,  not  even  knowing  our  names, 
all  over  Paris  !  He  didn't  know  whether  to  laugh  or 
cry.  He's  weak  still,  you  know.  And  then  he's  so 
dreadfully  grateful  to  us  !     I  was  glad  to  get  away." 

"And  when  does  he  want  them?"  said  Rosamond 
dolefully. 

"As  soon  as  possible.     He  can't  come  north  this 


174  TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

winter.  And  he's  not  rich  I  can  see.  So  I  was 
thinking  —  " 

"  What,  my  boy  ?  " 

"  It  is  so  cold  here,"  repeated  Walter ;  "  it  really 
feels  terrible  to  come  back  to.  Supposing  we  all  go 
down  there  for  a  couple  of  months  or  so,  to  escape  the 
cold?  We  could  keep  the  children  till  Bertram  is 
strong  again  and  able  to  make  his  plans.  I  think 
we'd  feel  quite  queer  without  them  now.  Besides,  I 
promised  him  to  bring  them  back  to  him." 

"  What  do  you  say,  Rosamond  ?  "  said  Auntie. 

"  I  should  like  it  very  much.  It  would  be  so  nice 
not  to  part  with  them  just  yet." 

So  it  was  decided.  You  can  imagine  how  much 
had  to  be  told  to  the  children  the  next  day.  Mingled 
sadness  and  happiness  —  warp  and  woof  of  the  web 
of  life ! 

But  when  they  found  themselves  once  more  on  the 
railway,  with  the  kind  friends  they  had  learnt  to 
know  so  well,  really  on  the  way  to  "  Papa,"  I  think 
the  happiness  was  uppermost. 

He  proved  to  be  the  dearest  of  Papas  -,  not  the 
very  least  like  what  they  had  imagined  him.  "  Of 
course  not,"  Gladys  said ;  "  people  and  things  are 
never  like  what  one  fancies  they  will  be."  But  though 
he  was  older  and  grayer,  and  perhaps  at  first  sight  a 
little  sadder  than  she  had  expected,  he  grew  merry 
enough  in  the  great  happiness  of  having  them  with 
him,  and  as  he  gradually  got  strong  and  well  again 
he  seemed,  too,  to  become  younger. 

"  Anyway,"  said  Gladys,  a  few  weeks  after  their 


PAPA  AT   LAST.  175 

arrival   at   Nice,    "  he   couldn't   be    nicer,    could   he, 
Roger  ?  "  in  which  opinion  Roger  solemnly  agreed. 

"And  now  he's  getting  better,"  she  added;  "it's 
not  a  bad  thing  he's  been  ill,  for  it's  made  the  doctor 
say  he  must  never  go  back  to  India  again." 

Is  that  all  there  is  to  tell  about  the  "  two  little 
waifs  ? "  I  think  I  must  lift  the  curtain  for  an 
instant  "  ten  years  later,"  to  show  you  little  Roger  a 
tall  strong  schoolboy,  rather  solemn  still,  but  bidding 
fair  to  be  all  his  father  could  wish  him,  and  very 
devoted  to  a  tiny  girl  of  about  the  age  at  which  we 
first  saw  Gladys,  and  who,  as  her  mother  is  pretty 
Rosamond,  he  persists  in  calling  his  "  niece,"  and 
with  some  show  of  reason,  for  her  real  uncle, 
"  Walter,"  is  now  the  husband  of  his  sister  Gladys  ! 

And  long  before  this,  by  the  bye,  another  marriage 
had  come  to  pass  which  it  may  amuse  you  to  hear  of. 
There  is  a  new  Madame  Nestor  in  the  Rue  Verte,  as 
well  as  the  cheery  old  lady  who  still  hobbles  about 
briskly,  though  with  a  crutch.  And  the  second 
Madame  Nestor's  first  name  is  "  Leonie."  She  is,  I 
think,  quite  as  clever  as  Mademoiselle  Anna,  and 
certainly  very  much  better  tempered. 

And  whenever  any  of  the  people  you  have  heard 
of  in  this  little  book  come  to  Paris,  you  may  be  sure 
they  pay  a  visit  to  the  little  old  shop,  which  is  as  full 
as  ever  of  sofas  and  chairs,  and  where  they  always 
receive  the  heartiest  welcome  from  the  Nestor  family. 

I  wish,  for  my  part,  the  histories  of  all  "little 
waifs"  ended  as  happily! 


A    NEW    UNIFORM    EDITION 

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WITH 

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"  It  seems  to  me  not  at  all  easier  to  draw  a  lifelike  child  than  to  draw  a  lifelike  mai\ 
or  woman:  Shakespeare  and  Webster  were  the  only  two  men  of  their  age  who  could 
do  it  with  perfect  delicacy  and  success;  at  least,  if  there  was  another  who  could,  I 
must  crave  pardon  of  his  happy  memory  for  my  forgetfulness  or  ignorance  of  his 
name.  Our  own  age  is  more  fortunate,  on  this  single  score  at  least,  having  a  larger 
and  far  nobler  proportion  of  female  writers;  among  whom,  since  the  death  of  George 
Kliot,  there  is  none  left  whose  touch  is  so  exquisite  and  masterly,  whose  love  is  so 
thoroughly  according  to  knowledge,  whose  bright  and  sweet  invention  is  so  fruitful, 
so  truthful,  or  so  delightful  as  Mrs.  Molesworths.  Any  chapter  of  The  Cuckoo  Clock 
or  the  enchanting  Adventures  of  Herr  Baby  is  worth  a  shoal  of  the  very  best  novels 
dealing  with  the  characters  and  fortunes  of  mere  adults." —  Mrs.  A.  C.  Swinburne, 
in  The  Nineteenth  Century. 

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MRS.  MOLESWORTH'S 
STORIES    FOR   CHILDREN. 


"  There  is  hardly  a  better  author  to  put  into  the  hands  of  children  than  Mrs- 
Molesworth.  I  cannot  easily  speak  too  highly  of  her  work.  It  is  a  curious  art  she 
has,  not  wholly  English  in  its  spirit,  but  a  cross  of  the  old  English  with  the  Italian. 
Indeed,  I  should  say  Mrs.  Molesworth  had  also  been  a  close  student  of  the  German 
and  Russian,  and  had  some  way,  catching  and  holding  the  spirit  of  all,  created  a 
method  and  tone  quite  her  own.  .  .  .  Her  characters  are  admirable  and  real."  —  St. 
Lout's  Globe  Democrat. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth  has  a  rare  gift  for  composing  stories  for  children.  With  a 
light,  yet  forcible  touch,  she  oaints  sweet  and  artless,  yet  natural  and  strong,  charac. 
ters."  —  Congregationalist. 

"Mrs.  Molesworth  always  has  in  her  books  those  charming  touches  of  nature: 
that  are  sure  to  charm  small  people.  Her  stories  are  so  likely  to  have  been  true  that 
men  'grown  up'  do  not  disdain  them."  —  Home  Journal. 

"  No  English  writer  of  childish  stories  has  a  better  reputation  than  Mrs.  Moles-' 
worth,  and  none  with  whose  stories  we  are  familiar  deserves  it  better.  She  has  3i 
motherly  knowledge  of  the  child  nature,  a  clear  sense  of  character,  the  power  of 
inventing  simple  incidents  that  interest,  and  the  ease  which  comes  of  continuous, 
practice."  —  Mail  and  Express. 

"  Christmas  would  hardly  be  Christmas  without  one  of  Mrs.  Molesworth's  stories. 
No  one  has  quite  the  same  power  of  throwing  a  charm  and  an  interest  about  the 
most  commonplace  every-day  doings  as  she  has,  and  no  one  has  ever  blended  fairy- 
land and  reality  with  the  same  skill."  —  Educational  Times. 

"Mrs.  Molesworth  is  justly  a  great  favorite  with  children;  her  stories  for  them 
are  always  charmingly  interesting  and  healthful  in  tone."  —  Boston  Home  Journal. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth's  books  are  cheery,  wholesome,  and  particularly  well  adapted  to 
refined  life.  It  is  safe  to  add  that  Mrs.  Molesworth  is  the  best  English  prose  writer 
for  children.  .  .  .  Anew  volume  from  Mrs.  Molesworth  is  always  a  treat." — The 
Beacon. 

"  No  holiday  season  would  be  complete  for  a  host  of  young  readers  without  a  volume 
from  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Molesworth.  ...  It  is  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  Mrs. 
Molesworth's  stories  that  older  readers  can  no  more  escape  their  charm  than  younger 
ones." — Christian  Union. 

"Mrs.  Molesworth  ranks  with  George  Macdonald  and  Mrs.  Ewing  as  a  writer  of 
children's  stories  that  possess  real  literary  merit."  —  Milwaukee  Sentinel. 


THE  SET.  ELEVEN  VOLUMES,  IN  BOX,  $11,00. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY, 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW   YORK. 


TELL  ME   A   STORY,    and   HERR   BABY. 

"  So  delightful  that  we  are  inclined  to  join  in  the  petition,  and  we  hope  she  may 
soon  tell  us  more  stories."  —  Athentzum. 


"  CARROTS";    Just  a  Little  Boy. 

"  One  of  the  cleverest  and  most  pleasing  stories  it  has  been  our  good  fortune  to 
meet  with  for  some  time.  Carrots  and  his  sister  are  delightful  little  beings,  whom  to 
read  about  is  at  once  to  become  very  fond  of."  —  Examiner. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CHILD ;  A  Sketch  of  a  Boy's  Life. 

"  A  very  sweet  and  tenderly  drawn  sketch,  with  life  and  reality  manifest  through- 
out." —  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"  This  is  a  capital  story,  well  illustrated.  Mrs.  Molesworth  is  one  of  those  sunny, 
genial  writers  who  has  genius  for  writing  acceptably  for  the  young.  She  has  the 
happy  faculty  of  blending  enough  real  with  romance  to  make  her  stories  very  practi- 
cal for  good  without  robbing  them  of  any  of  their  exciting  interest."  —  Chicago  Inter- 
Ocean. 

"Mrs.  Molesworth's  A  Christmas  Child  is  a  story  of  a  boy-life.  The  book  is  a 
small  one,  but  none  the  less  attractive.    It  is  one  of  the  best  of  this  year's  juveniles." 

—  Chicago  Tribune. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth  is  one  of  the  few  writers  of  tales  for  children  whose  sentiment 
though  of  the  sweetest  kind  is  never  sickly  ;  whose  religious  feeling  is  never  concealed 
yet  never  obtruded  ;  whose  books  are  always  good  but  never  '  goody.'  Little  Ted 
with  his  soft  heart,  clever  head,  and  brave  spirit  is  no  morbid  presentment  of  the 
angelic  child  'too  good  to  live,'  and  who  is  certainly  a  nuisance  on  earth,  but  a 
charming  creature,  if  not  a  portrait,  whom  it  is  a  privilege  to  meet  even  in  fiction." 

—  The  Academy. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY, 

66   FIFTH    AVENUE,  NEW   YORK. 


THE   CUCKOO   CLOCK. 

"  A  beautiful  little  story.  ...     It  will  be  read  with  delight  by  every  child  into 
whose  hands  it  is  placed."  —  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 


GRANDMOTHER   DEAR. 

"  The  author's  concern  is  with  the  development  of  character,  and  seldom  does  one 
meet  with  the  wisdom,  tact,  and  good  breeding  which  pervades  this  little  book."  — 
Nation. 


TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth's  delightful  story  of  Two  Little  Waifs  will  charm  all  the  small 
people  who  find  it  in  their  stockings.  It  relates  the  adventures  of  two  lovable  Eng- 
lish children  lost  in  Paris,  and  is  just  wonderful  enough  to  pleasantly  wring  the  youth- 
ful heart."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

"  It  is,  in  its  way,  indeed,  a  little  classic,  of  which  the  real  beauty  and  pathos  can 
hardly  be  appreciated  by  young  people.  ...  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  of  the  story 
that  it  is  perfect  of  its  kind."  —  Critic  and  Good  Literature. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth  is  such  a  bright,  cheery  writer,  that  her  stories  are  always 
acceptable  to  all  who  are  not  confirmed  cynics,  and  her  record  of  the  adventures  of 
the  little  waifs  is  as  entertaining  and  enjoyable  as  we  might  expect."  —  Boston 
Courier. 

"  Two  Little  Waifs  by  Mrs.  Molesworth  is  a  pretty  little  fancy,  relating  the  adven- 
tures of  a  pair  of  lost  children,  in  a  style  full  of  simple  charm.  It  is  among  the  very 
daintiest  of  juvenile  books  that  the  season  has  yet  called  forth  ;  and  its  pathos  and 
humor  are  equally  delightful.  The  refined  tone  and  the  tender  sympathy  with  the 
feelings  and  sentiments  of  childhood,  lend  it  a  special  and  an  abiding  charm."  —  Bos- 
ton Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"  This  is  a  charming  little  juvenile  story  from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Molesworth, 
detailing  the  various  adventures  of  a  couple  of  motherless  children  in  searching  for 
their  father,  whom  they  had  missed  in  Paris  where  they  had  gone  to  meet  him."  — 
Iff  on  treat  Star. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth  is  a  popular  name,  not  only  with  a  host  of  English,  but  with  a 
considerable  army  of  young  American  readers,  who  have  been  charmed  by  her  deli- 
cate fancy  and  won  by  the  interest  of  her  style.  Two  Little  Waifs,  illustrated  by 
Walter  Crane,  is  a  delightful  story,  which  comes,  as  all  children's  stories  ought  to  do, 
to  a  delightful  end."  —  Christian  Union. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY, 

66    FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW   YORK. 


THE   TAPESTRY   ROOM. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth  is  the  queen  of  children's  fairy-land.  She  knows  how  to  make 
use  of  the  vague,  fresh,  wondering  instincts  of  childhood,  and  to  invest  familiar 
things  with  fairy  glamour."  —  Athenceuiu. 

"  The  story  told  is  a  charming  one  of  what  may  be  called  the  neo-fairy  sort.  .  .  . 
There  has  been  nothing  better  of  its  kind  done  anywhere  for  children,  whether  we 
consider  its  capacity  to  awake  interest  or  its  wholesomeness."  —  Evening  Post. 

"  Among  the  books  for  young  people  we  have  seen  nothing  more  unique  than  The 
Tapestry  Room.  Like  all  of  Mrs.  Molesworth's  stories  it  will  please  young  readers 
by  the  very  attractive  and  charming  style  in  which  it  is  written."  —  Presbyterian 
Journal. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth  will  be  remembered  as  a  writer  of  very  pleasing  stories  for 
children.  A  new  book  from  her  pen  will  be  sure  of  a  welcome  from  all  the  young 
people.  The  new  story  bears  the  name  of  The  Tapestry  Room  and  is  a  child's 
romance.  .  .  .  The  child  who  comes  into  possession  of  the  story  will  count  himself 
fortunate.  It  is  a  bright,  wholesome  story,  in  which  the  interest  is  maintained  to 
the  end.  The  author  has  the  faculty  of  adapting  herself  to  the  tastes  and  ideas  of 
her  readers  in  an  unusual  way."  —  New  Haven  Paladium. 


CHRISTMAS-TREE   LAND. 

"  It  is  conceived  after  a  happy  fancy,  as  it  relates  the  supposititious  journey  of  a 
party  of  little  ones  through  that  part  of  fairy-land  where  Christmas-trees  are  sup- 
posed to  most  abound.  There  is  just  enough  of  the  old-fashioned  fancy  about  fairies 
mingled  with  the  '  modern  improvements '  to  incite  and  stimulate  the  youthful 
imagination  to  healthful  action.  The  pictures  by  Walter  Crane  are,  of  course,  not 
only  well  executed  in  themselves,  but  in  charming  consonance  with  the  spirit  of  the 
tale." — Troy  Times. 

"  Christmas-Tree  Land,  by  Mrs.  Molesworth,  is  a  book  to  make  younger  readers 
open  their  eyes  wide  with  delight.  A  little  boy  and  a  little  girl  domiciled  in  a  great 
white  castle,  wander  on  their  holidays  through  the  surrounding  fir-forests,  and  meet 
with  the  most  delightful  pleasures.  There  is  a  fascinating,  mysterious  character  in 
their  adventures  and  enough  of  the  fairy-like  and  wonderful  to  puzzle  and  enchant  all 
the  little  ones."  —  Boston  Home  Journal. 


A    CHRISTMAS    POSY. 

"  This  is  a  collection  of  eight  of  those  inimitable  stories  for  children  which  none 
could  write  better  than  Mrs.  Molesworth.  Her  books  are  prime  favorites  with 
children  of  all  ages  and  they  are  as  good  and  wholesome  as  they  are  interesting  and 
popular.  This  makes  a  very  handsome  book,  and  its  illustrations  are  excellent."  — 
Christian  at  ll^orh. 

"  A  Christmas  Posy  is  one  of  those  charming  stories  for  girls  which  Mrs  Moles- 
worth excels  in  writing."  —  Philadelphia  Press. 

"  Here  is  a  group  of  bright,  wholesome  stories,  such  as  are  dear  to  children,  and 
nicely  tuned  to  the  harmonies  of  Christmas-tide.  Mr.  Crane  has  found  good  situ- 
ations for  his  spirited  sketches."  —  Churchman. 

"A  Christmas  Posy,  by  Mrs.  Molesworth,  is  lovely  and  fragrant.  Mrs.  Moles- 
worth succeeds  by  right  lo  the  place  occupied  with  so  much  honor  by  the  late  Mrs. 
Ewing,  as  a  writer  of  charming  stories  for  children.  The  present  volume  is  a  cluster 
of  delightful  short  stories.  Mr.  Crane's  illustrations  are  in  harmony  with  the  text." 
—  Christian  Intelligencer. 

THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY, 

66   FIFTH    AVENUE,  NEW   YORK. 


THE    CHILDREN   OF    THE   CASTLE. 

"  The  Children  of  the  Castle,  by  Mrs.  Molesworth,  is  another  of  those  delightful 
juvenile  stories  of  which  this  author  has  written  so  many.  It  is  a  fascinating  little 
book,  with  a  charming  plot,  a  sweet,  pure  atmosphere,  and  teaches  a  wholesome 
moral  in  the  most  winning  manner."  —  B.  S.  E.  Gazette. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth  has  given  a  charming  story  for  children.  ...  It  is  a  whole- 
some book,  one  which  the  little  ones  will  read  with  interest."  —  Living  Church. 

"  The  Children  of  the  Castle  are  delightful  creations,  actual  little  girls,  living  in 
an  actual  castle,  but  often  led  by  their  fancies  into  a  shadowy  fairy-land.  There  is  a 
charming  refinement  of  style  and  spirit  about  the  story  from  beginning  to  end;  an 
imaginative  child  will  find  endless  pleasure  in  it,  and  the  lesson  of  gentleness  and 
unselfishness  so  artistically  managed  that  it  does  not  seem  like  a  lesson,  but  only  a 
part  of  the  story."  —  Milwaukee  Sentinel. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth's  stories  for  children  are  always  ingenious,  entertaining,  and 
thoroughly  wholesome.  Her  resources  are  apparently  inexhaustible,  and  each  new 
book  from  her  pen  seems  to  surpass  its  predecessors  in  attractiveness.  In  The  Chib 
dren  of  the  Castle  the  best  elements  of  a  good  story  for  children  are  very  happibr 
combined."  —  The  Week- 


FOUR   WINDS   FARM. 

"Mrs.  Molesworth's  books  are  always  delightful,  but  of  all  none  is  more  charm- 
ing than  the  volume  with  which  she  greets  the  holidays  this  season.  Four  Winds 
Farm  is  one  of  the  most  delicate  and  pleasing  books  for  a  child  that  has  seen  the 
light  this  many  a  day.  It  is  full  of  fancy  and  of  that  instinctive  sympathy  with  child- 
hood which  makes  this  author's  books  so  attractive  and  so  individual."  —  Boston 
Courier. 

"  Like  all  the  books  she  has  written  this  one  is  very  charming,  and  is  worth 
more  in  the  hands  of  a  child  than  a  score  of  other  stories  of  a  more  sensational  char- 
acter."—  Christian  at  Work. 

"  Still  more  delicately  fanciful  is  Mrs.  Molesworth's  lovely  little  tale  of  the  Four 
Winds  Farm.  It  is  neither  a  dream  nor  a  fairy  story,  but  concerns  the  fortune  of  a 
real  little  boy,  named  Gratian;  yet  the  dream  and  the  fairy  tale  seem  to  enter  into 
his  life,  and  make  part  of  it.  The  farm-house  in  which  the  child  lives  is  set  exactly 
at  the  meeting-place  of  the  four  winds,  and  they,  from  the  moment  of  his  birth,  have 
acted  as  his  self-elected  godmothers.  .  .  .  All  the  winds  love  the  boy,  and,  held  in 
the  balance  of  their  influence,  he  grows  up  as  a  boy  should,  simply  and  truly,  with 
a  tender  heart  and  firm  mind.  The  idea  of  this  little  book  is  essentially  poetical."  — 
Literary  World. 

"  This  book  is  for  the  children.  We  grudge  it  to  them.  There  are  few  children 
in  this  generation  good  enough  for  such  a  gift.  Mrs.  Molesworth  is  the  only  woman 
now  who  can  write  such  a  book.  .  .  .  The  delicate  welding  of  the  farm  life  about 
the  child  and  the  spiritual  life  within  him,  and  the  realization  of  the  four  immortals 
into  a  delightful  sort  of  half-femininity  shows  a  finer  literary  quality  than  anything 
we  have  seen  for  a  long  time.  The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land  is  in  this 
little  red  and  gold  volume."  —  Philadelphia  Press. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY, 

66    FIFTH    AVENUE,   NEW   YORK. 


NURSE   HEATHERDALE'S   STORY. 

"  Nurse  Heatherdale's  Story  is  all  about  a  small  boy,  who  was  good  enough,  yet 
was  always  getting  into  some  trouble  through  complications  in  which  he  was  not  to 
blame.  The  same  sort  of  things  happens  to  men  and  women.  He  is  an  orphan, 
though  he  is  cared  for  in  a  way  by  relations,  who  are  not  so  very  rich,  yet  are  looked 
on  as  well  fixed.  After  many  youthful  trials  and  disappointments  he  falls  into  a  big 
stroke  of  good  luck,  which  lifts  him  and  goes  to  make  others  happy.  Those  who 
want  a  child's  book  will  find  nothing  to  harm  and  something  to  interest  in  this  simple 
story." —  Commercial  Advertiser. 


i( 


US.1 


"  Mrs.  Molesworth's  Us,  an  Old-Fashioned  Story,  is  very  charming.  A  dear 
little  six-year-old  '  bruvver '  and  sister  constitute  the  '  us,'  whose  adventures  with 
gypsies  form  the  theme  of  the  story.  Mrs.  Molesworth's  style  is  graceful,  and  she 
pictures  the  little  ones  with  brightness  and  tenderness."  —  Evening  Post. 

"  A  pretty  and  wholesome  story."  —  Literary  World. 

"  Us,  an  Old-Fashioned  Story,  is  a  sweet  and  quaint  story  of  two  little  children 
who  lived  long  ago,  in  an  old-fashioned  way,  with  their  grandparents.  The  story  is 
delightfully  told."  —  Philadelphia  JVezus. 

"  Us  is  one  of  Mrs.  Molesworth's  charming  little  stories  for  young  children.  The 
narrative  ...  is  full  of  interest  for  its  real  grace  and  delicacy,  and  the  exquisiteness 
and  purity  of  the  English  in  which  it  is  written."  —  Boston  Advertiser. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth's  last  story,  Us,  will  please  the  readers  of  that  lady's  works  by 
its  pleasant  domestic  atmosphere  and  healthful  moral  tone.  The  narrative  moves 
forward  with  sufficient  interest  to  hold  the  reader's  attention;  and  there  are  useful 
lessons  for  young  people  to  be  drawn  from  it."  —  Independent. 

"...  Mrs.  Molesworth's  story  ...  is  very  simple,  refined,  bright,  and  full  of 
the  real  flavor  of  childhood."  —  Literary  World. 


THE   RECTORY   CHILDREN. 

"  It  is  a  book  written  for  children  in  just  the  way  that  is  best  adapted  to  please 
them."  —  Morning  Post. 

"  In  The  Rectory  Children  Mrs.  Molesworth  has  written  one  of  those  delightful 
volumes  which  we  always  look  for  at  Christmas  time."  —  Athenceum. 

"  A  delightful  Christmas  book  for  children;  a  racy,  charming  home  story,  full  of 
good  impulses  and  bright  suggestions."  —  Boston  Traveller. 

"  Quiet,  sunny,  interesting,  and  thoroughly  winning  and  wholesome."  —  Boston 
Journal. 

"  There  is  no  writer  of  children's  books  more  worthy  of  their  admiration  and  love 
than  Mrs.  Molesworth.  Her  bright  and  sweet  invention  is  so  truthful,  her  char- 
acters so  faithfully  drawn,  and  the  teaching  of  her  stories  so  tender  and  noble,  that 
while  they  please  and  ch;irm  they  insensibly  distil  into  the  youthful  mind  the  most 
valuable  lessons.  In  The  Rectory  Children  we  have  a  fresh,  bright  story,  that 
will  be  sure  to  please  all  her  young  admirers." —  Christian  at  Work. 

"  The  Rectory  Children,  by  Mrs.  Molesworth,  is  a  very  pretty  story  of  English 
life.  Mrs.  Molesworth  is  one  of  the  most  popular  and  charming  of  English  story- 
writers  for  children.  Her  child  characters  are  true  to  life,  always  natural  and 
attractive,  and  her  stories  are  wholesome  and  interesting."  —  Indianapolis  Journal. 


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ROSY. 

"  Rosy,  like  all  the  rest  of  her  stories,  is  bright  and  pure  and  utterly  free  from  cant, 
—  a  book  that  children  will  read  with  pleasure  and  lasting  profit."  —  Boston  Trav- 
eller. 

"  There  is  no  one  who  has  a  genius  better  adapted  for  entertaining  children  than 
Mrs.  Molesworth,  and  her  latest  story,  Rosy,  is  one  of  her  best.  It  is  illustrated  with 
eight  woodcuts  from  designs  by  Walter  Crane."  —  Philadelphia  Press. 

"  An  English  story  for  children  of  the  every-day  life  of  a  bright  little  girl,  which 
will  please  those  who  like  '  natural '  books."  —  New  York  World. 

"...  Mrs.  Molesworth's  clever  Rosy,  a  story  showing  in  a  charming  way  how 
one  little  girl's  jealousy  and  bad  temper  were  conquered;  one  of  the  best,  most 
suggestive  and  improving  of  the  Christmas  juveniles."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

"  Rosy  is  an  exceedingly  graceful  and  interesting  story  by  Mrs.  Molesworth,  one 
of  the  best  and  most  popular  writers  of  juvenile  fiction.  This  little  story  is  full  of 
tenderness,  is  fragrant  in  sentiment,  and  points  with  great  delicacy  and  genuine  feel- 
ing a  charming  moral."  —  Boston  Gazette. 


THE   GIRLS   AND   I. 

"  Perhaps  the  most  striking  feature  of  this  pleasant  story  is  the  natural  manner  in 
which  it  is  written.  It  is  just  like  the  conversation  of  a  bright  boy  —  consistently 
like  it  from  beginning  to  end.  It  is  a  boy  who  is  the  hero  of  the  tale,  and  he  tells  the 
adventures  of  himself  and  those  nearest  him.  He  is,  by  the  way,  in  many  respects 
an  example  for  most  young  persons.  It  is  a  story  characterized  by  sweetness  and 
purity — a  desirable  one  to  put  into  the  hands  of  youthful  readers." — Gettysburg 
Monthly. 

"  Jack  himself  tells  the  story  of  The  Girls  and  I,  assisted  of  course  by  Mrs.  Moles- 
worth, whose  name  will  recall  to  the  juveniles  pleasant  memories  of  interesting  read- 
ing, full  of  just  the  things  that  children  want  to  know,  and  of  that  which  will  excite 
their  ready  sympathies.  Jack,  while  telling  the  story  of  the  girls,  takes  the  readers 
into  his  own  confidence,  and  we  like  the  little  fellow  rather  better  than  the  girls.  The 
interest  is  maintained  by  the  story  of  a  lost  jewel,  the  ultimate  finding  of  which,  in 
the  most  unexpected  place,  closes  the  story  in  a  very  pleasant  manner.  Jack,  other- 
wise Mrs.  Molesworth,  tells  the  tale  in  a  lively  style,  and  the  book  will  attract  atten- 
tion."—  The  Globe. 

"...  A  delightful  and  purposeful  story  which  no  one  can  read  without  being 
benefited."  —  New  York  Observer. 


MARY. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth's  reputation  as  a  writer  of  story-books  is  so  well  established 
that  any  new  book  of  hers  scarce  needs  a  word  of  introduction."  —  Home  Journal. 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66    FIFTH    AVENUE,  NEW   YORK. 


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